


No Promises

by Blissymbolics



Series: No Promises [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Dubious Consent, Growing Up, M/M, No dubcon for Roy/Ed, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 18:46:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 76,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15891888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissymbolics/pseuds/Blissymbolics
Summary: "So what do I need to do to become an adult?" He's reaching the point of desperation."You're always a kid to people who knew you at that age."The cruelty in those words is how true they are.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wanted to write a quasi-realistic look at how these two could potentially get together, and of course it turned into a much bigger ordeal than initially planned.  
> The full story is drafted and a good portion of it is finished, so hopefully wait times won't be too long. Thanks!

**AMESTRIS** **1 KILOMETER**

His tired eyes shoot open as he catches a glimpse of the sign flying past the train window. He’s been stuttering in and out of sleep for the better part of an hour, but the sight of the border mark rouses him enough to stretch out the kinks in his back and wipe the grease from his forehead. From the border it’s just twenty more kilometers until the train hits Albupow, and then three more hours to West City.

He left Amestris by this same route just two months ago with the intention of staying abroad for at least a year. He has unspent money stitched into the lining of his coat and a research notebook that's practically blank. His temples are throbbing from dehydration, he's starving to the point of vertigo, and his body is saturated in itchy layers of sweat and train grime.

He left the small city of Barca on the very edge of Creta’s western border two weeks ago, and has been traveling on a straight trajectory home ever since.

It was bizarre that he now felt comfortable referring to Amestris as his home. Up until recently he never felt like he had any sentimental attachment to the country as a whole. There were people and a few specific places, some sights and smells that he would always associate with his childhood, but he never thought of the nation of Amestris with its viral network of corruption, greed, and violence as a place he particularly wanted to call home. Just two months ago when he passed the same border mark from the opposite direction, it almost felt like he was escaping enemy territory. Creta seemed like virgin land untainted by the reach of Father and his blood crests, which would leave scars on Amestris for the rest of history.

Unfortunately, it never occurred to him that this also meant that Creta would have no fucking alchemy.

From the outset Father and the Homunculi had no interest in Creta apart from the small patch of land they needed for their transmutation circle. This very patch of desert the train was currently riding through was once the focal point of a border skirmish that lasted three years and destroyed the tenuous alliance between the two nations. The Cretan government was baffled by the occupation since the land wasn’t even worth annexing. It had no natural resources or major cities, and most of the region was worthless as arable farmland. Yet thousands died in the conflict before the Cretan government admitted defeat. By that point the handful of citizens from the region had been resettled, and the army was hemorrhaging money trying to ward off the Amestrian assault. Defending the land became nothing more than a matter of pride, and when the liability outweighed the humiliation, they let it go. As a result, the battlefield became one more crest of blood on the spoke of Father’s wheel.

After securing the land, Father had no reason to spread alchemy any farther west, and it seems like Hohenheim never made it out this way either. The handful of alchemists he did encounter were all Amestrian expats or their descendants, who couldn’t do much more than mend roads and fix leaky pipes. This discovery was disappointing, but not entirely useless. It was proof that alchemy really did originate in Xerxes, leaving Father and Hohenheim as its only surviving legacies. In hindsight, he probably could have inferred all of this from the comfort of his bedroom and spared himself this joke of a research expedition.

Not too long ago, he believed that he would be perfectly happy traveling for the rest of his life. Wandering from town to town scouring the bookstalls and living off the street food. In retrospect, it may have been more fun when he had buildings to blow up and rouge alchemists to chase. And Al was always there to keep him company.

The original plan was to follow Al out to Xing after learning all he could out west, but now that he’s made it past the border, he can’t stomach the thought of readapting to another foreign country and reliving all the shitty mistakes he made in the one right behind him. With that option off the table, he has no idea what he’s supposed to do next.

For the past two weeks he’s been fantasizing about the clean bed and hot food waiting for him in Risembool, but he knows that by this time next month he’ll be stir crazy again. He spent two full years basking in the rural lifestyle of evening walks and week-old newspapers, but he can’t spend the rest of his life making smalltalk with the same seven people and turning down dates with his former classmates from primary school. Winry and Granny know this, and they never had any expectation that he would settle there permanently. But now that he really thinks about it, there’s nowhere else that he particularly wants to be.

Moving to Central would be the most logical option if he wanted to find a job. Although the reality was he needed a job whether he wanted one or not. The necessity of employment was a pill that he was still struggling to swallow. He always imagined that after restoring Al he would retire from the military and spend the rest of his life collecting his pension and doing whatever the fuck he wanted.

Mustang ended up being the one to shatter his delusion that the military was ever going to give him a pension. He even laughed when Ed first brought it up in his hospital room a week after the Promised Day. In hindsight, it was pretty funny. At sixteen he was smart enough to destroy every curve, but for some reason it never occurred to him that in order to qualify for a pension you had to retire after sixty or be discharged due to injury. Because of course that’s how it worked. If every young adult who voluntarily retired from the military got a lifelong pension the whole country would be taxed to hell.

_You could always marry your friend in Risembool and then fake your death. Then she would get a widow’s pension._

_Great plan. Except I can’t legally get married until I’m eighteen!_

_I could legally adopt you and give you permission to get married._

_Great idea, I wanna make sure your name's included in the fraud lawsuit._

It’s hard to believe that conversation with Mustang happened over two years ago. In the weeks following the Promised Day, he spent an obscene amount of time lurking in the Colonel’s hospital room. He chalked it up to boredom since Al was sleeping roughly eighteen hours per day in the early stages of recovery. They were rarely alone though since Hawkeye was almost always in the adjacent bed. There were doctors and nurses cycling through, and members of Mustang’s team were constantly coming and going. But once in a while they would find themselves completely alone together, and Ed would spend those precious minutes staring into his sightless eyes with the gaze of a storm watcher afraid to blink in case he missed a streak of lightning.

He felt guilty, and more than a bit creepy for taking advantage of Mustang’s blindness in this manner. During their private conversations his eyes would wander across the exposed skin of his arms, which were spotted with faint, blotchy scars that probably originated as third-degree burns. He would focus just enough mental energy on maintaining the conversation, and the rest he spent memorizing how the ceiling lights would cast shadows across his features, and the way the muscles in his neck would shift and tighten as his spoke. Whenever someone else entered the room he would relax his gaze and succumb to the mental exhaustion he normally experienced after reading an entire book in one sitting.

In the past he always made an effort to avoid looking Mustang directly in the eyes. Always keeping his gaze fixed right above his shoulder or the crown of his head. Now he was free to catalogue every detail from the calloused soles of his feet to the stress-bitten nubs of his fingernails. He felt comfortable acknowledging that he was an irredeemable piece of shit for finding this small degree of pleasure in Mustang’s blindness. But he refused to stop looking because he knew it wouldn’t last. Dr. Marcoh had already promised to restore his sight, and Ed couldn’t bring himself to object to his use of the Stone.

The Colonel’s team tried to keep him out of the loop for as long as possible; anticipating at best a lecture and at worst a sabotage attempt. Everyone seemed shocked when he simply shrugged and said that using the Stone would be fine. Dr. Marcoh had been utilizing the souls encased within the Stone for years to heal the people in his village. The remaining energy would be exhausted soon anyway. Might as well use it for something in the nation’s best interest.

_So you’re not going to try to stop me?_

_Why do you think I would do that?_

_Because using the Philosopher’s Stone violates your entire belief system._

_We’ve clocked a total of maybe a hundred hours of conversation over the course of five years. Don’t act like you know the ins and outs of what I believe._

_I don’t think I’m making any far-fetched assumptions. You loudly proclaimed to an arena full of people that you would rather let your brother die than use the Stone to bring him back._

_Because I knew there had to be another way!_

_And if there wasn’t?_

_Fuck off._

The discussion ended there. He hated that this business with Mustang was forcing him to deliberate the ethics of the Philosopher’s Stone after all the loose ends in his life were neatly tied up. He wanted to banish all thought of the Stone from his memory. All those restless nights he spent internally debating whether or not its harm outweighed its merits; trying to convince himself that any use of the Stone was wrong, when in reality he knew that nothing could ever be that black and white.

He decided to sacrifice his alchemy in exchange for Al’s body and soul because he firmly believed that it was the right thing to do. But of course he would have used the Stone that Ling offered him had Truth rejected his payment. If that failed as well, then he would have let Hohenheim pay the toll. He would have sacrificed himself as a last resort once every other option was exhausted.

He didn’t think that he would ever regret his decision. But just days later – as he watched his brother smile while eating his first bite of solid food – it all seemed so stupid. Had he made a mistake giving up his alchemy instead of using the Stone that was now going to sit on a pedestal in some vault in Xing for the next millennium? Was turning it down truly the ethical choice, or was the necessity of sacrifice and pain so ingrained into his bones that martyrdom felt obligatory even after enduring more than his fair share suffering?

All he knew was that in the wake of his existential crisis, he couldn’t in good conscious guilt Mustang into rejecting a cure for a punishment that was unjustly forced upon him. And more importantly, he needed Mustang to be happy. He would regret it for the rest of his life if he became a cause of Mustang’s misery.

The Colonel and his entourage shipped out back east before restoring his sight. They left more than a month before Al was healthy enough to leave the hospital, so Ed never had the chance to witness his recovery. He doubted that Mustang was deluded enough to believe that he could find atonement in a desert that he personally scorched to glass, but maybe he felt that initiating the restoration effort would marginally ease his chronic guilt. Especially now that the souls of the victims he helped slaughter would be embedded in his retinas.

Six months later, Ed received a letter. A brief missive from Mustang informing him that his vision was restored and all was going well out east, and by the way how are you and Al? There was a return address written on the envelope, and he agonized for days over the perfect words to write back. A week of stalling became two. Then a month. Then three. At that point he figured it would be in both their best interests if he never responded at all.

 

* * *

 

_The guy’s name never quite stuck in his memory. It was five syllables long and started with T. He'd heard it once and didn’t spare any effort to learn it, figuring he would just be another one-contact acquaintance in the clip show of his life._

_He was a Cretan doctoral student researching the people who once inhabited the southern region of Amestris before the country annexed the territory roughly one hundred years ago. The entire native population was forced to resettle in Aerugo, where their welcome was less than warm. The assimilation process had been cruel in its intensity, and whatever cultural remnants the refugees managed to carry with them had been snuffed out generations ago. T was fascinated with the society they left behind, and dreamt of one day convincing the Amestrian government to allow archaeological expeditions._

_Unfortunately, he started his doctoral program just as the border skirmishes were turning deadly. For the past five years he’d been bitterly preparing a thesis devoid of real substance as each year he was denied a visa to study in Amestris. Ed suspected that the rejection had less to do with the military conflict and more to do with the fact that the government was apprehensive of anyone – citizen or not – digging up information related to the various ethnic groups that were assimilated, expelled, or slaughtered as the country expanded. Maybe in a decade or two attitudes would change, but for now the poor guy seemed destined for disappointment._

_After closing the bedroom door, Ed confessed that he’d never slept with a man before. He doubted that his choice of phrasing fooled T in the slightest, but thankfully he didn’t press him about it. He just smiled, kissed him, and undressed him slowly while pulling him down onto a shabby mattress that probably hosted many other bodies besides his own._

_The pain caught him off guard. The first lubricated finger caused a cramping sensation to seep into the ridges of his pelvis. It stung the foreign muscles and made his throat tighten like he was going to be sick. He knew that from a physiological standpoint it shouldn’t feel this terrible. It was just his mind and body playing tricks on him; rebelling against the intrusion the way his immune system would attack an unfamiliar pathogen. He tried to relax, but the pain was persistent. Then a second finger entered him and a sharp pulse of agony stole his breath away. He tried wiggling his toes to distract himself from the excruciating stretch that seemed to be searing him from the inside out. If he told the man above him to stop he probably would have listened, but he voiced no objections and tried to pass off his pained gasps as pleasure._

_He was completely unaroused by the time the worst of the pain had subsided. T assured him that it was normal and it would feel better soon, but the anxiety in his tone was less than reassuring. Then he was pushing inside, and the pain was so intense he could barely breathe. His body was coated in sweat and his legs were shaking uncontrollably as if there was an electric current running through him. The lubrication from the condom provided little relief as he clawed his nails into the sheets and ground his teeth to keep from screaming. It felt like someone was shoving a blunt, hard object into his automail socket over and over again. Black spots began dancing across his vision as the world spun in fast rotations. And yet every time T asked if he was okay, he managed to choke out a weak ‘yes’._

_He finally heard T moan and gasp as he finished. After pulling out, Ed couldn’t stifle his impulse to gulp down air as if someone just released his throat from their grasp. He felt his body contract and cramp as his muscles spasmed around nothing. He was soft beyond recovery, but T still tried taking him into his mouth. Ed pushed his head away before his lips made contact and started scrambling for his clothes. While getting dressed, T tried soothing him with a steady string of apologies, but Ed was too preoccupied to listen._

_He tried his best to stay calm despite the dizzying realization that what he just went through was physically akin to rape. But as soon as that thought crossed his mind he felt shame wash through him for even entertaining the thought that his experience was comparable. Getting swept under the current wasn’t the same as someone forcibly holding your head underwater. Or in his case, voluntarily submerging himself beneath the surface. Just because the physical sensation of asphyxiation was universal, it didn’t mean that the conditions were the same._

_It was just psychology that had betrayed him. The source of his pain was probably some irrational survival instinct that evolution hadn’t found a reason to weed out yet. Besides, the guy had been careful. He would have stopped if he could see that he was causing physical damage. The pain was all in his head. It was just his overactive paranoia trying to convince him that he was being torn apart._

_“Remember, my name is Tymodarines Cosse.”_

_Ed stood fully clothed in the doorway, stunned out of his internal monologue by the man’s abrupt declaration._

_“When you go back to Amestris… can you help me? With my research?"_

_Ed finally let himself scream._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amestris strategically alternates between the metric system and the imperial system depending on what unit of measurement sounds best in the sentence.

There’s a line of public pay phones along the far wall of the station, but the entire row is occupied. He leans against a nearby pillar and waits for a slot to open up, but the billowing smoke and noise pollution quickly become too overbearing for his fatigued senses. After several minutes of waiting, he decides to leave the station and try his luck looking for a phone booth.

The temperature in West City is frigid. The first frost of the year fell the night before and coated the streets in a layer of black ice. The roads have been salted, but not the sidewalks, and Ed finds himself struggling to stay upright as he makes his way towards a phone booth at the end of the block.

After latching the door shut, he fishes out several Amestrian coins from his suitcase and dials the number for Central Command. He knows that he won’t be able to reach Mustang directly via a civilian line, but hopefully he can resort to name-dropping if the underpaid switchboard girl refuses to patch him through.

Two rings. “Hello, how may I direct your call?”

She sounds bored. Of course she is, her shift is ending in ten minutes.

“Yes, I’d like to speak to Brigadier General Mustang.”

“May I have your security code?”

“Yes, it’s cherry, formula, nine, gallery, blue.” He’ll remember that code until the day he dies. Even if he forgets every word of Cretan within the next month. He just hopes that they didn’t purge his name from the record logs. That doesn’t seem like the sort of thing they would retype every time someone retires.

“Thank you sir, one moment please.”

He’s not sure whether that means ‘I’ll check to make sure he’s in his office,’ or ‘I called your bluff and I’m reporting you to the military police.’ He can’t summon the energy to care if it’s the latter. He's so tired that just resting his forehead against the frosted glass and listening to the steady sound of his breathing through the receiver is starting to lull him into a daze.

Finally the line picks up again.

“I’m patching you through now.”

Thank god. He’s going to have to give Mustang hell about Central Command’s security protocol if any crazy former state alchemist can just casually reach his office. There are three rings, and then –

“Brigadier General Mustang speaking.”

Crap, he didn’t plan out what he was actually going to say once he got through. Just say a greeting. Any greeting.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Shit, he needs to say something.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Who’s me?”

That hurt way more than it had any right to.

“Ed, dumbass. Who else would it be?”

“Oh, Ed! Sorry, you’re just one of the last people I was expecting. How did you get past the switchboard?”

“Apparently they haven’t updated the code logs since I left.”

“I’ll have to put in a word about that.”

“You’ll make them leave me on though, right? As the exception?”

“Of course.” He pauses. Probably waiting for Ed to tell him what he wants. Shit, he knew his Cretan was bad but apparently he’s also forgotten how to speak his native language.

“Where are you now? Are you still in Creta?”

Good, that’s simple, he can answer that. Why the fuck is he sweating even though he can see his breath in the air?

“No, I’m in West City right now. I just got off the train. I’m getting into Central tomorrow morning and I have to hang there for a day before my train to Risembool leaves. And I was wondering if you might want to hang out after work tomorrow?”

His voice is pitched a couple notes high and his throat is starting to ache. Maybe the sudden urge to cry is just an effect of the sheer discomfort and borderline pain enveloping every inch of his body. Or maybe it’s his common sense trying to tell him that this is a very bad idea.

“Are you alright, Ed?”

No, don’t ask him that. Don’t make him say he’s fine while on the verge of tears.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

The tears spill over. At least he made a valiant effort.

“It’s just… Creta was fucking miserable. There wasn’t any alchemy, the language was bullshit, I was bored to death, and I just really missed this fucked up excuse for a country.”

Mustang is silent on the other end. The pain constricting his chest is growing worse. Anxiety hums beneath his skin as he braces himself for rejection and possibly two more years of radio silence. Honestly, he doesn’t deserve anything less.

“Welcome home, Fullmetal. Everyone will be really glad to have you back. Why don’t you come by my office around four-thirty tomorrow. We can catch up and you can complain about how awful Creta is, and I’ll take you out to dinner. You must be broke from living out of hotels.”

“Wait, you’re not reimbursing me for this trip?!”

Mustang laughs. “I think that would violate the International Espionage Code.”

“I wish you’d assigned me some casual espionage. I was bored out of my mind.” He leans back against the glass; relieved that the emotional climax of the conversation has come and gone.

“It’s hard to imagine you getting bored.”

“Well it happened. And it happened a lot. So you better keep me entertained when I get in tomorrow.” He meant for it to sound demanding, but as soon as the words leave his mouth he realizes that it may have come off as suggestive. Mustang doesn’t seem to notice though.

“I’ll try my best,” he laughs. “Sorry, I have to head out now. I have a lunch meeting with some people you would hate.”

“Okay. By the way, did you get a new office with the promotion?”

“Yes. I’ll let the front desk know you have an appointment. They’ll tell you where to go. It’s in the east wing on the third floor.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then. Bye.”

“Goodbye, Fullmetal. Glad to hear from you again.”

The line goes dead. He hangs up the receiver and immediately digs his fingers into his scalp to tug at the roots of his hair.

“You fucking idiot. You fucking idiot,” he mutters under his breath, quiet enough so that the passing pedestrians can’t hear him through the glass.

 

* * *

 

 

_It was only his second week in Creta, but he was already growing frustrated that his research was going nowhere. His patience finally hit the breaking point when his last hair tie snapped between his fingers. After glaring at it for a few harsh seconds, he threw the offending bit of elastic and cloth into the trash and stomped his foot against the floor of his hotel room like a child throwing a fit._

_Everywhere he turned the world seemed to be mocking his inability to perform alchemy. The arrays in his head were still elegant and intricate, but that didn’t change the fact that transmuting a broken hair tie was now beyond his capabilities. Sure, he could have fixed it with two stitches of thread if he honestly cared, but instead he decided to go downstairs to the hotel’s overpriced bar to mope and drink in true adult fashion._

_His frustration had been steadily mounting for days as he was forced to reconcile with the fact that maybe there was nothing here to discover. He had read the entire translated corpus of Cretan scientific literature cover-to-cover, but hadn’t encountered a single footnote related to alchemy. He arrogantly thought that maybe all the other scientists had missed something, and he would be the one to make some grand discovery and revolutionize the field. But maybe he was just wasting his time wandering around looking under rocks while his brother was on the other side of the world immersing himself in a science that would take five lifetimes to master. How pathetic was it that he had just turned nineteen and already felt like he was running out of time?_

_The guy had approached him at the bar slowly; awkwardly sliding into the seat next to him. Nervous and stuttering with an accent that Ed was struggling to keep up with through his second drink. Once his glass was empty, the guy set down some money for the bartender and seemed to intentionally hold his wallet open in Ed’s line of sight. In his initial obliviousness, his only thought was: ‘Well he’s an idiot for carrying around that much cash.’_

_A few seconds later the gesture registered, and in his head he began translating the sentence that would send the man on his way. He was just conjugating the final verb when his synapses seemed to snap in the opposite direction. After a moment of contemplation, he turned to inspect the man’s face. He was no older than forty and mildly attractive, though it was hard to tell through the cloud of insecurity. To make matters worse, he was evidently too honest or too dumb to remove his wedding ring._

_While examining him, the perpetual soundtrack of ethical dialogue that accompanied his daily life seemed to short circuit. The philosophical arguments that constantly vied for dominance in his brain finally went quiet. Normally his inner monologue was relentless on every issue large or small. Can war be justified? Should the government raise the retirement age now that people are living longer? Am I racist for not remembering every stupidly long Cretan name? Honestly, it was exhausting living inside his head. No matter how hard he tried to suppress it, he still found himself compulsively sorting every insignificant issue into neat boxes of right and wrong. In that moment, it was a blessing to suddenly feel so shamelessly indifferent._

_He led the man to his room without any further ceremony. He rationalized that turning him away wouldn’t save his marriage. If he was willing to pay for it, he’d get it from someone. Besides, he resolved his internal debate on prostitution years ago, and came to the conclusion that as long as it was consensual and safe it shouldn’t be a big deal. Although his own involvement was never a potential variable._

_At the last second, he set a condition for himself. He wanted the financial equivalent of 300,000 cenz. He wasn’t going to haggle. If the man didn’t offer it upfront he would make him leave. It was such an unreasonable sum that it seemed like the perfect safeguard, but when he counted the handful of bills thrust into his hand the conversion came out to almost 350,000. Even factoring in extreme inflation wouldn’t save him._

_When it was over, he stuffed the money into the lining of his suitcase and swore to never spend a single cenz. He didn’t regret depriving the man of a paycheck, but he was too proud to treat the money as anything more than a trophy. After taking a shower and stripping the bed, he lay huddled on the bare mattress and let the reality sink in that he just had sex with a married man for money simply because that seemed to be what life was throwing in his direction and he felt too apathetic to fight against it._

_Through concentrated denial, he managed to keep the disgust and self-loathing at bay for almost a full day, but by the next evening he found himself engulfed in a depression so deep that simply dragging himself out of bed to lock the door was a near impossible task. He was an isolated entity composed of decaying cells, bile, and brain matter that seemed to be collapsing in on itself. He was objectively the most disgusting creature to crawl out of the earth. He had disgraced his mother, his brother, the stranger’s wife, and every person in his life who helped him survive until adulthood._

_Through the worst of it, he tried his best to maintain some perspective. This wasn’t his first brush with crippling depression, and it definitely wouldn’t be his last. Yet all of his past episodes had been in response to serious trauma. The loss of his limbs, Nina’s death, Hughes’ death, these were objectively awful experiences, and he could find some measure of comfort in the knowledge that his grief was logical and merited._

_This response was not logical. This was just a stupid mistake. Sure, it was the first orgasm he ever shared with another person. It was his first time inside someone else's body. But surely he was destined to live through a thousand situations more traumatic than this one. How the hell was he supposed to live as a functional adult if something as stupid as this could drive him to the brink of catatonia?_

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

After shutting the door to his hotel room, he immediately strips out of his dirty clothes and cringes at the stench they emit once they've been peeled off his clammy skin. There's not enough time to do laundry, so he grabs a shirt, some underwear, and a pair of socks to wash with him in the shower. He contemplates washing his coat and trousers too, but his meeting with Mustang is in seven hours, and he knows that they won't be dry by then.

As a favor to his self-esteem, he bypasses the mirror while walking into the bathroom. In the shower he scrubs his body raw and washes his hair three times to dislodge all the matted grease. Then he rubs the bar of soap into the creases of his clothes and wrings them out until the fabric refuses to twist any further.

It's so frustrating that all the little things he used to take for granted were now what he missed the most. Sure, alchemy was useful in combat scenarios, but it was the mundane tasks like doing laundry, unlocking doors, and boiling water that made him bitterly aware of what he no longer had.

There was no point in dwelling on it though. Rather than moping he should just be grateful that he's fortunate enough to have a room with soap, hot water, and a radiator where he can lay his clothes out to dry. This place is even nice enough that the closet has a set of robes, and he decides to shrug one on rather than take a nap in his equally filthy sleep clothes.

He lingers in front of the bathroom mirror for a while before heading to bed. As expected, he looks absolutely haggard. His skin has a dry, unhealthy texture to it, and his eyes are puffy and bloodshot. He's always counted himself lucky for never having problems with acne, but the build up of sweat and grime has caused small bumps to appear all along the skin of his cheeks and forehead. At least they're not as noticeable as they felt under his fingertips.

There's not much he can do to make himself more presentable, so he settles for brushing his teeth until his gums bleed and combing his hair until each strand is lying flat and smooth.

Once satisfied, he grabs the newspaper he picked up in the lobby and collapses onto the plush bed in the center of the room. After winding up the alarm clock on the nightstand, he settles in to lazily skim through the paper, mainly in search of conversation topics that he can bring up with Mustang.

It looks like Amestris managed to stay in one piece while he was away. There were bills being passed, corrupt politicians getting court-martialed, and the occasional murder and kidnapping to keep everyone on their toes.

Amestris was in the midst of what many were hailing as a golden age of journalism. Bradley's downfall and the ousting of the senior staff had led to the unsealing of municipal archives and relaxed restrictions on the press. Suddenly, news outlets that had once produced little more than banal puff pieces were churning out groundbreaking articles as fast as the type could be set.

Mustang had always had a reputation in military circles, but his actions during the Promised Day made him a household name. Of course, this also made him a target for public scrutiny, and reporters across the country began eagerly digging for any dirt they could find.

One young reporter at the Central Times hit the jackpot when she managed to find a copy of his birth certificate. Further excavation into the hospital archives revealed that his mother was a young Xingese woman who died in childbirth due to a vague case of hemorrhaging. Digging deeper, she discovered that his mother was a refugee who fled her homeland due to a civil war that devastated western Xing. Incidentally, this was the same war that resulted in Ling's father's ascension to the throne.

The Amestrian government had granted her asylum, but revoked it several years later after she was arrested for prostitution. The only thing that saved her from immediate deportation was the fact that she was seven months pregnant. So she sat in a jail cell for several weeks before going into premature labor, and died in the hospital not long after the delivery.

The reporter managed to track down Mustang's adoption certificate, which listed his official guardian as none other than his late mother's madame, Christine Mustang, who would go on to spend the next thirty years transforming her seedy brothel into a high-class gentlemen's club.

To Mustang's credit, he was fully prepared for this scenario. He had a PR statement out by the very next morning, despite being stranded out in the middle of the desert. It was so finely crafted and polished that it had probably been sitting in his back pocket for the past decade.

Ed had read it in the paper over and over again until he had it memorized. It was only a few paragraphs long, but it was enough to stifle the outrage from all but his most xenophobic and heartless critics. In it he commended the reporter's investigative integrity and confirmed that the article was accurate. He acknowledged that while he preferred to keep his personal life private, he never lied about his past or attempted to conceal the paper trail detailing the conditions of his birth. He spun words in circles, turning issues inside and out, somehow managing to insightfully critique a medley of social injustices while also casting himself as the pariah who would solve them all. It was undeniably political, but that's what it needed to be under the circumstances.

Ed didn't find the revelations in the article particularly surprising. Mustang was always more secretive of his past than his treasonous ambitions, so Ed figured there had to be some unsavory backstory that he wanted to keep private. If anything, it gave him a new perspective on why Mustang was so loyal in keeping his human transmutation attempt a secret.

He understood what it was like to have a secret so controversial it could destroy your entire life.

After settling down in Risembool, he began clipping every article on Mustang that made it to the village newsstand. Even the inaccurate ones. Even the racist ones. Even the ones that contained photos of that horrifying, but thankfully short-lived mustache. He felt the urge to create a library chronicling every detail of the man’s life; especially now that he was no longer a part of it. The scrapbook he compiled was such a stereotypical symptom of lovesickness that all he needed were some candles and a shrine to make the presentation complete.

But all obsessions run their course, and as the months went by he found himself spending less and less time lingering over the photographs. His dreams of the man became infrequent, and eventually he was able to come to terms with his sexuality outside of the context of his attraction to Mustang. At first he mourned these fading emotions. His infatuation with Mustang had been such a formative part of his adolescence, but childhood crushes are never meant to follow you into adulthood. It’s natural to outgrow them, just like he outgrew every item of clothing he owned.

He latched onto Mustang simply because he was the first person he ever found attractive. For that alone he would always hold a special place in his heart and memory, but he’s not crazy enough to think that he was actually in love with him.

The words on the page have begun to shift in and out of focus. His eyelids feel weighted, and he can’t remember the content of the last two articles he’s read. He tosses the paper to the floor and curls beneath the blankets, thankful that his anxiety has relaxed to the point where he may actually get some decent sleep.

Still, he can’t quell the nervous suspicion that seeing Mustang again will reignite some of the feelings that have faded naturally with time. It would be wiser to maintain some distance, but he feels like an asshole for cutting him off in the first place. Besides, there was a familiarity and warmth there that he craved after being away from home for so long. Mustang represented a chapter of his life that he wanted to revisit. It was a period of incessant stress and misery, but the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia made it seem so much happier than the reality he was living in now.

 

* * *

 

 _At the one month mark he decided to abandon his search for Cretan alchemy. The farther he traveled the fewer Amestrians he encountered. The dialects became thicker, and he found himself struggling with a chronic headache from diving headfirst into a new language without any preparation._ _He quickly realized that he didn't have a knack for linguistics like he did for science. Memorizing complex arrays and equations came as second nature, but now he was reduced to repeating the same five-word phrases over and over again trying to force them to stick. Maybe he was picking it up a bit faster than the average learner, but it was still an excruciatingly slow process._

_The only Amestrian reading material he brought with him was a thin paperback novel, which was starting to split at the spine from so much use. He naively thought that with a few weeks of practice his Cretan would be good enough to stumble through a book, but in reality it would be months or years before he reached that point. In the meantime, he was landlocked with no source of entertainment besides his overactive imagination, and it was a dangerous thing to spend too much time stuck inside his own head._

_Needless to say, he was thrilled when he discovered that the city he just rolled in to had a university with an Amestrian language program. Maybe he could finally have a conversation that extended beyond grocery store pleasantries. Maybe he could even find some gigs tutoring or translating and settle down for a bit to figure out what his next move should be._

_The program director was almost as fluent as a native speaker. He'd lived and studied in Amestris for almost a decade before electing to leave once the border skirmish broke out. He didn't seem bitter about it though, and Ed found himself welcomed with warm enthusiasm. Their conversation spun on for hours as they rambled from topic to topic and slowly migrated from his office, to a nearby restaurant, to the bedroom of his apartment._

_Strangely enough, the man seemed perfectly fluent up until the point when Ed told him that he didn't like penetration. And no, he didn't want to roll onto his stomach. No, he didn't want to stay any longer. Based on the man's offended and confused reactions, Ed might as well have been speaking in tongues._

_The encounter left him drained and frustrated, but he expertly compartmentalized the experience and shoved it to the back of his mind. He briefly considered leaving town the next morning, but decided that he wasn't going to let one terrible person throw off his entire schedule. Besides, he had already made appointments to meet with two other professors at the university. Their offices were in the natural sciences building, which was located several blocks away from the linguistics department. The campus was by no means large, but it was big enough to avoid one person._

_When he arrived for his first appointment the guy's secretary curtly informed him that he would be out for the rest of the day. A few hours later he found himself knocking repeatedly on the locked door of his second appointment, who was clearly inside despite his lack of response. At that point Ed realized that his almost bed partner had shit-talked him off the premises._

_On the route back to his hotel, he stopped at a liquor store to buy the cheapest bottle of wine that came pre-chilled. He drank it within the span of an hour, and strongly regretted not putting down a little extra cash for something that would get him fucked up faster. He started running a bath while still drinking from the bottle in long, sour pulls. Once the last dregs were gone, he stripped naked and sank into the scalding water._

_Rationally, he knew this was a terrible idea. People died this way all the time. Drunk idiots like him pass out in bathtubs and their bodies aren't discovered until days later. Vivid images sprang into his head of the cleaning staff unlocking his door the next morning to find his putrefying corpse steeping in the water. Shudders rattled his body as he tried to suppress that train of thought, but his brain was stewing in poison and seemed to be jumping from one morbid trance to another with no regard for his instructions._

_"You fucking idiot. You fucking idiot," he chanted under his breath to drown out the manic noise ringing in his ears. He seethed the words over and over again as his arms and legs jolted involuntarily from the sudden rage choking his muscles. He cried into his elbow. A long, whining sound from the back of his throat meant to drive out every vestige of emotion._

_By the time the water was lukewarm, his body had finally relaxed back to its natural resting state. He was still completely hammered, but his mind was now drifting placidly with the lull of the water. At that point he felt calm enough to rationally think about the consequences of this experience._

_He knew that in the grand scheme of life this was a pathetically insignificant mistake. It was over, and now he was safe, warm, and completely alone in a strange country more than a thousand kilometers away from every person he wanted to see. Still, he'd gotten out of the encounter intact and unharmed. He doubted that the man had any authoritative clout outside of his local network. And even if he did, Ed had no desire to stay in Creta for much longer anyway._

_He'd be over this by the time the hangover cleared. Give it a day or two. It's really not a big deal. Definitely not something worth getting drunk over. He was being dramatic, hysterical, childish. He would survive this and so much more._

_He let his head sink below the surface of the water. What he wouldn’t give to remember the coping mechanisms he'd mastered as a child. Survival was a skill that seemed intuitive, but apparently he'd forgotten it somewhere along the way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the filler. I promise they actually meet face-to-face in the next chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: I have no concept of when Ed's birthday is. I envision this story taking place in November, but I put zero effort into making the math work, so sorry if it doesn't add up right!

True to tradition, he barges in unannounced. Mustang doesn’t look the least bit surprised, which is customary as well.

His new office is almost identical to the one he had before. The stars on his shoulders and the patches on his chest are the only real indication that his power over the world has ticked up a notch. That and his absurdly ornamental desk, which is carved with motifs of ionic columns and twisting vines that look like they could swallow him whole.

Ed strides across the pristine carpet and slouches down into one of the wide leather chairs positioned in front of the desk. The cushion is disappointingly stiff, as if it’s supposed to make guests feel uncomfortable.

“What? Were you expecting someone else?” he asks after a few seconds of silence.

“No,” Mustang replies. “But it’s only 4:27. I’m simply shocked that for once in your life you made it to an appointment early.”

“Traffic was better than I expected. Believe me, I planned to keep you waiting.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he says, and Ed catches his eyes flickering down the length of his body. “You actually grew. I heard the legends, but I think I needed to see it to believe it.”

Whereas he looks exactly the same. Ed’s not sure why he expected him to look significantly older. It’s only been two years and some change since they last saw each other, but it’s eerie to think that he turned into an adult while everyone else around him stayed the same.

“I always told you I was still growing. Apparently supplying the nutrition for two bodies at once can stunt your growth a bit.”

“That doesn’t explain why your voice never dropped.”

A sharp pang pierces his sternum.

“You know, this is why your only friends are the people you have on payroll,” he retorts, relieved that he managed to spit out a witty comeback without stuttering.

“Touché,” he responds while capping his pen and closing the manila folder laid out in front of him. “Sorry for teasing you. Old habits die hard.”

“It’s fine.” He shrugs off his coat and crosses his legs at an abnormal angle, hoping that Mustang didn’t notice the flicker of vulnerability that crossed his expression when he took a stab at his voice.

There were times back in the day when he was tempted to tell Mustang how the teasing remarks and casual banter would replay through his head days and weeks after the fact; steadily chipping away at the fragments of his self-esteem. Still, the jabs that Mustang threw his way were always far tamer than the insults he spit back, and it wasn’t fair to be bitter at the guy for not being able to read his mind. He just really thought his skin would be thicker by now.

“Where is the team by the way? It’s weirdly quiet up here.” He glances around the barren walls.

“They’re around. Fallman is up north, and Breda is still stationed out in Ishval, but everyone else is currently in the building as far as I know. I thought about announcing that you were dropping by, but I figured you might be too exhausted for extensive socializing. But I can certainly call up anybody you would like to see.”

Damn, had he really sounded that pitiful on the phone? Unfortunately, he can’t deny that Mustang assumed correctly. There were definitely people he wanted to see again sometime soon, but a full-scale welcome wagon would be absolute hell on his current mental state.

“That’s okay,” he sighs. “You’re right, I’m feeling pretty tapped out. I don’t think I’d be very good company.”

“Do you want to take a raincheck on dinner?”

“No way,” he responds with more enthusiasm than intended. “You’re still buying, right?”

“That was the plan.”

“Then I’m in. I haven’t had a real meal in weeks.”

His eyes drift towards Mustang’s face. As their gazes lock a shiver courses through his shoulders as it really hits him that this is the first time Mustang has seen him since his sight was restored.

“Nice eyes by the way.” Shit, that came out wrong. “I mean, the last time I saw them they were kind of misty.” He waves a hand in front of his face for further clarification.

“I never had the chance to see them. In hindsight I wish someone had taken a picture. That’s a nice arm you have there,” he says, pointing to Ed’s right side. “Same make and model as the other one?”

He can’t believe that the first thought that comes to mind is, _I can finally jerk off with it_. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“More or less. It’ll never be as strong as the other one since the muscles atrophied so much while I was supposed to be growing. But I can write, open jars, and punch a bitch when I need to, so it gets the job done.”

He clenches his fist a few times to examine the blue veins bulging against his slightly tanned skin. After a full year of one-armed pushups he was forced to reconcile with the fact that the muscles would simply never be equal to those of his left arm. Visually, the difference is barely noticeable, but he still prefers to keep it hidden beneath long sleeves.

“Have you been doing a lot of punching lately?” Mustang asks.

“Just a bit. Just some casual assaults.” He shrugs and crosses his arms; hiding them from view.

“Please don’t tell me you came back so soon because you made yourself a _persona non grata_.”

Despite his feign exasperation, Mustang’s smile is infectious, and it’s hard to deny that simply being in his presence is starting to cheer him up a bit.

“No, I kept my head down. Which was challenging since I was one of the only blond people in the country.”

“Did you wear the red coat?”

“No, I didn’t wear the red coat,” he says with mock offense. “I figured that stops being cute after eighteen.”

“Were you trying to be cute all along?”

“I was trying to be unique. I’m kind of over that now.” He gestures to the plain, muted clothes that anyone his age could be wearing.

Looking back, it’s pretty embarrassing how hard he tried to rationally justify his wardrobe when he was younger. In reality, he was just desperate to be seen and heard by anyone willing to pay attention. He wanted to draw people’s eyes and give himself presence in a crowd the same way Al did. Back then, people would stare at him because he was obnoxious. Now they stare at him because he’s attractive. As a kid, he never would have imagined that he would one day hate that attention.

“It’s hard to believe you’re nineteen now,” Mustang says almost reverently.

“Honestly, I don’t feel any smarter now than I was at thirteen. I think I peaked at fifteen. It’s all downhill from here,” he says jokingly, as if he wasn’t divulging one of his greatest fears.

“You don’t sound very enthused for someone who just returned from a research expedition.”

“That’s putting it generously. There’s literally no alchemy in Creta. Like none at all. Believe me, I looked.”

“Not even basic utility alchemy?”

“There’s some of that, but it was all brought over by Amestrians, so it’s exactly the same as it is here, except less refined.”

“You could probably write a dissertation on it and get an easy doctorate. You would be the first in the field to write about it.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “The first and the last. It’d be three pages long and my only citation would be ‘I fucking tried.’”

Mustang laughs. “Even so, have you thought at all about going back to school? I know you detest hierarchies and authority, but any job you’re qualified for will probably require you to have a doctorate.”

The thought had occurred to him too. Tragically, leaving the military not only meant revoking his right to a pension, but also abandoning any ounce of credibility that came with the title of state alchemist. For some weird reason, employers were reluctant to hire people based on reputation alone. They wanted references, resumes, and most importantly, documented proof that you completed primary school.

Ed had none of those things.

It wasn’t just jobs though. Academic journals wouldn’t publish his research unless he had the three initials PhD appended to his name. And applying for grants was pointless as long as he remained unaffiliated with any reputable institution. Strangely enough, research organizations felt uncomfortable giving money to people so that they could do unsupervised experiments in their basements.

He really doesn’t want to go back to school though. Even if he received a generous stipend and managed to whittle the program down from five years to one. He has no desire to answer to a higher authority, and yet he also has no interest in becoming an authority figure himself. This is why the title of wandering nomad seemed so ideal up until recently.

“Yeah, probably,” he huffs. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

“There’s no rush. You have plenty of time.”

Ed clenches his brow. “Was that sarcastic?”

“No,” Mustang laughs. “Have you forgotten that you’re still technically a teenager?”

There’s that pain again pulsing right beneath his ribcage and creeping up his throat.

“Right, thanks for reminding me.”

“Any time. Which reminds me, before we head out, I wanted to show you something.”

He pulls open a drawer on the lower portion of his desk and retrieves a slightly tattered manila envelope sealed with a bit of red string. After unwinding the thread he pulls out a stapled pamphlet and places it on the other side of the desk for Ed to get a closer look.

“Do you recognize this?” he asks with a smug expression.

Written on the first page in blocky, scribbled letters are the words: ‘Youswell. 3 March 1912. Edward Elric.’

“Holy shit.”

“That’s right. The first report you ever wrote for me. It’s officially declassified now, which means a copy has to go into the general archives. But I’m definitely keeping the original for posterity.”

The sheets of paper are already starting to yellow around the edges. A side effect of the acid in the wood pulp. His fingers tighten fractionally as he’s possessed with the urge to rip the report in half. It would be so easy to tear the frail paper into shreds. To take a step towards erasing all evidence that he existed before adulthood. If he were able, he would burn every last picture of himself and scrub Mustang’s memory clean so that he would only remember him as he is right now.

“Do you want the finger-paintings I did when I was three for your collection too?” he sneers. Mustang must find his embarrassment adorable.

“I don’t believe for a second that you ever touched finger-paints. You were using a protractor before you could talk.”

He did have finger-paints. His mom hung them on the wall in the living room. They went up in flames with the rest of the house.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to maintain his barriers when he’s already received ample confirmation that Mustang still sees him as a child. Of course he does, why wouldn’t he? That was the entire dynamic of their relationship, and five minutes of conversation wasn’t going to upend that history. It’s just frustrating that it bothers him so much.

Realistically, nothing will ever happen between them. He can name ten good reasons why off the top of his head, and with time he could probably come up with a million more. Rationally, he understands that there’s nothing here for him. Yet how could he simply ignore the fact that at one point he wholeheartedly believed that Mustang was the most beautiful person in the world? How could he be so stupid to think that a conviction like that could simply disappear?

Mustang collects the pamphlet and inserts it back in its folder.

“Let’s get out of here. What are you in the mood for?”

 _Your fingers in my mouth._ His body pulses at the dirty images infiltrating his mind.

“Anything but Cretan,” he responds while pushing himself out of the chair. “And fair warning, I haven’t washed my clothes in weeks, so don’t take me anywhere you plan on going back to.”

“Good to know. Do you drink?”

“Occasionally.”

“What do you like?”

“Whatever’s put in front of me.”

He may need a generous amount of alcohol to get through the night.

Looking back, there must have been a reason why he cut off contact with Mustang in the first place. A very mature and responsible reason that involved moving on from stupid, impossible fantasies. Now, he can’t escape the notion that he’s just wasted two whole years of progress and regressed back to square one.

It turns out he really isn’t any smarter now than he was at thirteen.

 

* * *

  

_He knows there are a million other things he could be researching in Creta besides alchemy. Literally anything else. Chemistry, geology, agriculture, fucking architecture, why not? He could spend his copious spare time actually learning the language beyond pure necessity. These are all things he should be doing, and he feels like shit for wasting his time doing none of them._

_Instead he’s here. In the bedroom of another stranger, emotionally depleted and already prickling with regret even though they’re still in the early stages of foreplay._

_His train to Donabach leaves tomorrow morning. It’s a three-day straight shot to the ocean. All he wants to do is stand in the waves and breathe in the air for a while. He just wants to come out of this experience with at least one good memory. A moment he can look back on years later, and whimsically recall how that one day that made the rest of the journey worth it._

_The man is now kissing down his left hip and seems to be migrating towards his automail. Ed briefly considers telling him that the scar tissue around his port is so thick that there’s barely any sensation left. The nerves are so dead that kissing around the area will probably feel just as pleasurable as kissing his fingernails._

_It’s fine though._

_He doesn’t want to hurt the man’s feelings over something so harmless._

_“Can I take this off?”_

_“What?” He must have mistranslated him. All of his clothing is currently on the floor._

_“This,” he strokes the steel calf of his leg. “Can I take this off?”_

_“No!” He bolts upright and jerks his leg back so quickly that he nearly knees himself in the jaw._

_“Please? It will feel good. There are many νεύρο_   _inside.”_

_Ed thinks that’s the word for nerves. The man is speaking to him with a tone that he probably reserves for toddlers. Ed’s fully aware that he has the language comprehension of a three-year-old, but the man’s infantilized tone is still deeply unsettling._

_“You want to fuck my leg?” He doesn’t know the word for port or stump._

_“It feels good. I have done it before.”_

_Meaning he’s done it to other people before. He doesn’t understand that the nerves channeled into the port are so concentrated that anything more than the lightest pressure is abject agony. Or maybe he does understand, and that’s part of the appeal._

_Ed frantically tries to recall what Winry told him about Cretan automail. She said that the technology was far behind that of Amestris. They’ve figured out how to funnel the nerves through permanent ports, but the signal is much weaker, so the limbs have limited mobility and are ill-equipped for combat. They’re usually attached impermanently through clasps and straps so that they can be removed for sleeping and bathing. Winry lectured him about all of this ad nauseam before he left; making sure he understood that if he busted up his leg he’d be walking on crutches until crossing back over the border._

_Still, even if the guy doesn’t know how sensitive Amestrian automail is, it’s still fucking unbelievable that he would suggest something so invasive during what couldn’t more obviously be a one-night stand. He’s never felt the vulnerability and terror of being deprived of mobility. The loss of the most basic instinct to run until you reach safety. Rage curls in his stomach at the thought of this stranger violating the most intimate part of his body; mocking his inability to escape._

_“No,” he snaps firmly while bolting up from the bed to begin looking for his clothes. He feels self-conscious facing the man while he dresses, but he can’t handle the vulnerability of leaving his back exposed._

_“I am leaving.” He’s already pulled on his boxers and is trying to fit his legs into his trousers._

_“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, we don’t have to–”_

_“Stop talking!” It’s impossible to dedicate any energy to translating when his mind is reeling in an endless litany of ‘What the fuck? What the fuck?’_

_He pulls his shirt over his head and scans the floor for his boots. His socks are nowhere in sight, and he decides to write them off as a casualty. He jams his metal foot into his boot and lifts his leg to tie up the laces, refusing to bend over or get on his knees._

_“Wait.” The man grasps his arm out of nowhere, nearly causing him to lose his balance._

_“You came home with me. That means you have to stay.”_

_This is it. This is the encounter that will snap his moral compass. He’s going to kill this man._

_“That is not how it works where I am from.”_

_“That’s how it works here.”_

_The fingers grasping his left arm tighten, and for a fleeting moment Ed fervently wishes that he still had his automail arm. The punch he lands is satisfying, but not nearly as powerful as the hits he used to throw. The man staggers a bit, and he takes the opportunity to snap his leg up and knee him in the groin with a deadly crack of chrome and iron. That has the desired effect, and Ed revels in the prospect that this may be the most painful experience of this man’s life. He crumples to the floor like dead weight, and Ed lands one final kick to his abdomen; fully aware that targeting his chest could puncture a lung and kill him._

_Seconds later, he’s out the door and hurrying down the stairs to escape the agonized sounds of gasping and vomiting coming from the bedroom. He exits onto the street and begins briskly walking in the direction from which he originally came._

_The street is crowded. It’s a weekend night and still fairly early in the evening. While walking, he makes a concentrated effort to eavesdrop on the conversations of the strangers passing by. His vocabulary is still too limited to pick up any important details, but he manages to catch phrases and snippets in the cluster._

_“He said we should……probably before…”_

_“I forgot that……maybe instead…”_

_“That’s great! When can I give her the…”_

_Eventually it all merges together into a meaningless rumble of white noise. The individual voices fade away as his mind drowns out all external input with a single phrase playing on a fast-spinning feedback loop:_

_I want to go home._

_I want to go home._

_I want to go home._

_There’s nothing left inside of him but that singular desire._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last flashback. Thanks for bearing with me!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments so far. They really mean a lot to me!  
> And now: *pounds table* “Angst! Angst! Angst!”

They sit at their table talking for almost an hour after their plates have been cleared away. Long after the cubes of ice from their third refill have melted. When the waiter starts giving them pointed glances, Mustang offers to buy him a drink at a bar a few blocks away.

As they’re walking, Ed notices that Mustang is measuring his strides to avoid stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk. It’s such a childish habit that he can’t help but smile and attempt to match his pace to do the same.

Almost two hours later, they’re still sitting across from each other in a cramped booth at a seedy dive bar with their tab running at about 40,000 cenz. Ed can sense that he’s hovering dangerously at the threshold between tipsy and drunk. They’ve both finished their rounds, and their conversation is starting to wind down just as the bar begins emptying out. Before long, it’s just the two of them in addition to one other couple in the far corner and a very bored bartender reading a paperback behind the counter.

He knows that his window of opportunity is closing once he notices Mustang glance at his watch. So far, it feels like they’ve spent the entire evening talking about everything and nothing. Strategically avoiding matters too personal for polite company.

He wonders if Mustang has caught on to how carefully he’s been calculating his sentences; methodically weighing the pros and cons of every word in order to keep certain lines uncrossed. But now that the end is in sight, there are suddenly ledgers worth of words he needs to say. And if everything goes south, maybe he can get away with blaming it on his virgin liver drowning in the alcohol.

“Hey, can I ask you a weird personal question?” He’s staring down at the rim of his empty glass, but he can still see Mustang shrug in the corner of his vision.

“Sure. I think I’ve had enough to drink for that.”

_No, you definitely haven’t._

“What’s the worst experience you’ve ever had with a woman? Like a horrible, scarring experience.”

Mustang drops his smile and stares at him inquisitively. Probably trying to assess what fresh layer of hell this line of questioning is going to lead to.

“Wow, I wasn’t expecting that. Um… let’s see. Can you handle something semi-graphic?”

“I can handle all the graphics,” he replies, relieved that Mustang seems willing to go along with this.

“Okay, well, my very first experience was when I was fifteen. I was at a house party with a girl I had been dating for a few weeks, and of course we were all drinking and being insufferably obnoxious. And later, the two of us went outside behind the house… and I started going down on her.”

Ed can sense the discomfort creeping into his tone.

“Then after a few minutes, I started tasting blood–”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” He sharply clips the bottom of his glass against the table for emphasis.

“I thought you could handle all the graphics?” Mustang laughs.

“I can, but I can’t handle the second-hand embarrassment of being that poor girl.”

That and it was just too weird thinking about the fact that Mustang started having sex around the same time he was learning how to walk.

“Fair enough. I had another unfortunate encounter just a couple months ago. I was out to dinner with a young lady and we each had a few glasses of wine. She invited me back to her place, but after we got there she broke down into a fairly severe panic attack. After calming down a bit, she told me that tonight was her first time drinking alcohol. She had never tried it before because her mother was an alcoholic, and now she was terrified that she might be drunk. The night turned into a very awkward therapy session.”

Ed’s first thought is:  _You poor bastard, that’s probably going to happen to you again tonight._

His second thought is that Mustang sounds significantly more sober than him. He’s had five drinks, but evidently he’s been drinking for at least eighteen years. Whereas Ed can count the number of times he’s gotten drunk on one hand. He wouldn’t consider himself a lightweight per se, but he definitely hasn’t had much time to build up a tolerance, and missing about twenty pounds of weight off his leg certainly doesn’t do him any favors.

Still, it feels like one more factor offsetting the equality of their conversation, which if he’s being honest with himself, really shouldn’t be happening in the first place. But he pushes past the insecurity and slight nausea to finish what he started.

“Okay, but were either of those women bad people?”

“No…” Mustang replies hesitantly, as if there were some correct answer.

“Percentage-wise, about what percent of the women you’ve dated were actually bad people?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Maybe two percent. What brought this on anyway?”

Ed desperately wants to tell him to forget about the whole thing. But the words are already resting on the tip of his tongue, their weight stifling his breath.

“Every man I’ve been with has been fucking awful. And I’m really fucking bitter that I’m not attracted to women.”

There, he said it. It takes less than a second for the soundwaves to cross the short distance, and already he wishes he could snatch them back in mid-flight. Every time he does something unbearably stupid, he likes to envision a parallel timeline where he didn’t fuck up so badly. There’s another Edward out there who is smarter, happier, and better than him. An Edward who is immensely relieved that he didn’t do whatever stupid shit this version just did.

This version who just came out to his former boss and childhood crush, who will never reciprocate this stubborn attraction that he thought was finally dying out, but was really just aging like fine wine; waiting to flow back in and get him good and fucking drunk.

Mustang sighs. “You always did have terrible luck.”

Ed doesn’t risk looking at him, but at least he sounds genuinely sympathetic.

“Yeah, and that’s not even counting all the casual harassment.”

His sober rationality is screaming at him to stop talking. He’s made everything weird enough already. But the bitter monologues have been amassing in his head for weeks, and he desperately needs to vent about all the bullshit that adult life has thrown at him so far.

But he can’t go there now. At least not in public.

“Were these men you dated or one-night stands?”

It turns out they’re going there.

Ed is momentarily stunned by the question. The ease and candor of his tone seems like something that should be reserved for best friends and lovers. This isn’t the type of conversation he should be having with anyone else.

“One-night stands,” he answers quietly, even though there are only three other people in the bar and the sound of the radiator is muffling his voice.

“Well, then of course they’re going to be terrible.”

“You must have one-night stands,” he responds bitterly; slightly peeved by the implication that all this shit is pure common sense.

“I haven’t for years. Complaining about sleeping with people you just met is like complaining about the healthcare system because you only go to emergency rooms.”

He doubts that Mustang would be acting so dismissive if he understood the circumstances, but Ed grinds his teeth and forces himself to hold back the details until they’re out of public earshot.

“Well, I’ve been traveling. Dating isn’t really an option.”

“That’s fair. Do you have plans to keep traveling?”

“Maybe. I don’t know,” he lies.

“Maybe you should avoid casual hookups until you’ve settled down somewhere. And met someone you like.”

There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence as Ed tries to parse whether that was meant to be parental advice or a come-on. Definitely the former, he decides. He still can’t think of an appropriate response though, so he settles for an indifferent shrug.

“Can I ask how long you’ve known?” Mustang asks when the silence becomes too awkward.

It’ll be a miracle if they can ever make eye contact again after tonight.

“Since I was twelve, thirteen-ish.”

“Would you be horribly offended if I said I wasn’t surprised?”

“I don’t think anyone who’s walked within a meter of me would be surprised. Apparently I exude some kind of homing beacon that makes every guy think I’m available.”

“Have you considered that might just be because you’re attractive?”

With those words, it feels like he’s been jolted back inside his thirteen-year-old body, but his organs no longer fit within the cramped space. Mustang has grabbed him by the ribs and violently dragged him back in time to when he lived for those small moments of contact and affection. Like when their fingertips would brush as they exchanged papers, or when a simple hand on his shoulder would vibrate in his muscle memory for days.

He vividly recalls the last time Mustang touched his skin. It was more than a year before he retired. Before the world was turned upside down.

It was the middle of summer and the office was scorching hot. The curtains had been taken down for their once-in-a-decade cleaning, and the sunlight pouring onto the desk had forced them to relocate to the couch and coffee table. They were sitting side-by-side going over some paperwork for his travel reimbursements. Mustang was lecturing him about discretionary funds and he was zoning out thinking about how fucking hungry he was.

Then out of nowhere, Mustang slapped him.

Well, slap was a strong word. It was more of a playful tap simply meant to get his attention. He hit himself much harder when trying to swat a mosquito.

_You with me, Fullmetal?_

No, he wasn’t.

Because Mustang’s hand just grazed his cheek and he could still feel the slight tingle.

This isn’t as bad as that, but it’s still pretty awful.

“You’re attractive,” he replies impulsively. “Do guys hit on you every time you do something flirtatious? Like walking or breathing?”

“No, but I’m not as attractive as you are.”

He feels the blush hit him like the roar of a campfire. The hairs on his arms prickle, and his palms start sweating the way they do before a fight.

“Just so you’re aware,” he grates, “this isn’t the straightest conversation I’ve ever had.”

“I’m aware.” Mustang is leaning forward on his forearms and smiling in a way that Ed has become all too familiar with.

“You’re drunk.”

“A little bit,” he replies, but makes no move to back off.

Ed glares at him with all the malice he can rally. Using his body language to broadcast an overwhelming desire to drop off the face of the earth and take Mustang with him.

He instantly leans back and retracts his coy smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfort–”

“Then you shouldn’t fucking flirt with me,” he snaps, and is instantly mortified even though it felt too hushed to draw any notice. He’s about to mutter an apology, but Mustang beats him to it.

“I’m sorry,” he says slowly. “It was horribly insensitive of me to teasingly flirt with you, while you were in the midst of complaining about how much you hate men flirting with you.”

Ed slowly exhales, as if that could expel all the venom mingling with his blood. At least Mustang is intuitive enough to know what upset him. He doesn’t have to spell it out. Then it hits him that all Mustang was doing was playfully complimenting him, and he reacted by spitting in his face.

Or what if he was genuinely coming on to him? The possibility never even registered.

Either way, he’s fucked up everything, which is right on brand.

“I know I’m over-reacting,” he sighs. “It’s just all so fucking annoying. Like, meeting people is supposed to be fun, and you shouldn’t have to second-guess every word and calculate every fucking move wondering what’s going to set some guy off and turn him into an entitled asshole. You’re not supposed to feel scared that some random guy you just met is going to try to rape or kill you.”

And there’s the crux of it. There’s the sentiment he’s been dying to express for weeks. That he can deal with the embarrassing smalltalk, the awkward kisses, and even the shitty sex itself. But he can’t handle this fear that has wormed its way under his skin and seems to twist anytime a pair of eyes linger for too long. He just wants to return to a reality where seeking companionship was supposed to be something natural and easy, and not a fucking minefield where one wrong move could fuck you up for life.

He wants to ask if this is normal. After all, everyone has bad hookups. This must be shit that women go through on a regular basis, and they still manage to go to work, live their lives, and keep dating men without turning into shell-shocked war vets. Because that’s what adults are supposed to do. They’re supposed to get over stupid shit like this.

Mustang’s voice cuts through his self-pitying reverie.

“I stopped dating men for that exact reason. I feel terrible that I had that option and you don’t.”

The floor drops out from under him. He can feel his heart banging against his ribcage accompanied by a subtle ringing in his ears. The tears that he’s been holding back all night are swimming tight against his eyelids. For a moment, all he can focus on is breathing through the nausea, and once the initial spike of queasiness passes, he’s able to run Mustang’s words through his head. The simple string of syllables restructuring the context of his entire adolescence.

The only conclusion he’s able to draw is that the world is too fucking unfair. For six damn years he’s been able to console himself with the certainty that Roy Mustang was straight. That there was never one goddamn shred of hope that his feelings could be reciprocated beyond the world of his daydreams. This perfect certainty fostered a type of dull pain that felt safe and pure amidst the agony of his day-to-day existence. It was raw emotion devoid of fear, guilt, regret, and all the other baggage that normally accompanies pain, and the hopelessness is what made it bearable.

Now that he knows there’s a chance, he’ll ruin himself if he lets it go. He can foresee his future stretched out in front of him. Confession, rejection, misery, regret. It’s all there plain as day. It’s a trap, and he’s going to walk right into it without any bait.

At that moment, the lights in the ceiling start to flicker, and Ed hopes to god that it’s a blackout.

“Last call. Looks like that’s our cue to leave,” Mustang says while glancing over at the bartender idling by the light switch.

“What the fuck? It’s only ten o’clock.”

“It’s also a Tuesday night and there are only four of us here. I’ll go pay the tab. Do you want to hunt down a cab? We can split one.”

“Sure,” he responds, but Mustang is already standing up and walking over to the bar.

Ed silently swears through his teeth before jamming his arms into the sleeves of his coat. As soon as his feet touch the floor, the full effect the alcohol seems to hit. He staggers for a moment, and curses himself with every derogatory word he knows for saying all that shit while too wasted to be trusted with a can opener.

He self-consciously coordinates his body towards the entrance and pushes open the light wooden door with more force than necessary. Once his nerves hit the cold air, he lets his mind go blank; focusing on the bitter sting of the icy flurries nipping at his nose and ears.

He’s able to hail a cab just as Mustang is walking out, but it’s obvious that he was lingering inside for as long as possible to avoid another awkward interaction. Ed doesn’t call him out on it though, and they get in the cab without exchanging a word. Mustang gives his address to the driver and they lurch forward down the narrow road.

The ride is silent, but the tension feels like it could steam the windows. It’s an old cab without any heat, but he’s still sweating through every layer.

He doesn’t want tonight to end like this. He’s not entirely sure what he wants, but he can’t go back to the lonely liminality of another hotel room. He’s always been an impulsive gambler, and now that he knows there’s a possibility, even the smallest most pathetic probability, he can’t let it go.

He slowly starts to glide his hand across the tattered seat. He doesn’t dare turn to see Mustang’s reaction. Instead he keeps his gaze focused on the illuminated living rooms of the passing houses. He sees silhouettes in the drawn curtains and glimpses of furniture and wallpaper through the gaps.

Meanwhile, he forces his hand to continue its journey, until his fingers must be just inches from Mustang’s leg. He stops, giving him time to shift away, or cross his legs. It would be the cleanest form of rejection. Simple and direct. But there’s no rustle of cloth or dip in the seat, even though he must clearly see his hand in the steady light of the street lamps.

Ed moves his hand further, until his fingertips are touching the edge of his thigh.

No reaction.

He steadily runs his hand up the curve of his leg and lays it to rest right above his knee. It’s a monumental effort to repress the shiver that courses through his whole body. The simple contact through the military-grade fabric is sending currents from the nerves in his palm to the queasy warmth coiling in his stomach.

He knows that this is all he needs to do to convey his intentions. He could still pull away and mutter an apology, and Mustang would probably let it go. But if he just keeps his hand here, light and undemanding, then Mustang will invite him inside. He might offer to make him coffee that will grow cold if it gets made at all. Then they can have good, mutually satisfying sex, and maybe that will help him work through some of these issues.

He’s positive that any therapist in Central would be calling him a dumbshit right about now.

Suddenly, it occurs to him that if they sleep together, then any potential for friendship will be ruined. It’s strange to think that he’s met so many people, travelled to so many places, and saved so many lives, but he can’t think of a single person who he can comfortably call a friend. Sure, he has Al and Winry, but they’re his family. He can’t tell them about all the fucked up shit ricocheting around in his head.

Mustang could be that friend. Someone stable in his life who will get drunk with him and patiently listen to him complain about his love life and deal with his sporadic breakdowns over past trauma. It would be a weak replacement for the type of intimacy he craves, but it might be just enough to keep him placated.

He suddenly feels the urge to draw his hand away, press his burning face against the window, and wrap himself in a fetal position so tight it will probably strain every muscle in his body. He’s just about to pull away when he feels the soft pads of Mustang’s fingers, and then the weight of his palm, settle over the back of his hand.

This is the first time they’ve touched skin in more than three years, and he would gladly purge all his memories of the past two months if it meant he could exclusively dedicate that mental space to memorizing this moment. Before the questions and accusations start. Before the consequences set in. Just the warmth radiating through his skin and making him painfully aware of how touch-starved his body is.

Even if nothing happens tonight, he knows that the imprint of Mustang’s hand will leave a heavy shadow for years to come.

The street names pass one-by-one as the driver shamelessly extends the fare by slowing down for the non-existent pedestrians at each intersection. As the minutes drift by, his anxiety begins to hypothesis every conceivable disaster scenario. He imagines Mustang leaving him in the cab without a courtesy goodbye. Or inviting him inside just for the privacy to scream at him. Or simply cutting off contact altogether and avoiding him until one of them is put in the ground.

After all, what incentive has he given Mustang to want something like this? If he’s willing abstained from sleeping with men for years, then tonight definitely won’t be the exception. Mustang has known him as a child for eight years, and only as an adult for a few hours. And not even a competent adult. An adult who’s still in the infant phases of learning how to adult.

In his current state, he honestly doesn’t deserve anything more than Mustang’s disgust and anger, which he would probably see clearly etched in his expression if he had the courage to look.

He must despise him for putting him in this situation. Forcing him to turn down sex with a confused teenager while still trying to offer some measure of comfort. Holding his hand because he’s too kind to refuse him the indulgence, but all the while knowing that this is the extent of the contact he’s willing to offer. It’s humane torture, and Ed is soaking in every second of it.

 

Mustang must be able to feel how hard his hand is trembling.

 

When they finally pull up in front of the house, Mustang retracts his hand to fish out his wallet and pay the driver, who has apparently remained oblivious to the tectonic plates shifting in the backseat. Then Mustang turns to him, but the shadows are too deep to clearly make out his expression.

He sighs. “Do you want to come in for some coffee?”

“Yeah”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, temper your expectations. We still have 25,000+ words left to go.


	6. Chapter 6

Mustang toes off his boots and hangs his coat by the door before walking down the hallway into the kitchen. As Ed is struggling with the stubborn knot of his boot, he hears the sound of running water, and realizes that Mustang is actually making coffee.

He manages to pull the knot free, but briefly considers lacing it back up again and leaving without saying a word. Mustang would probably thank him if he did exactly that.

“You can come in!” he shouts from the kitchen.

“Just a sec!” he yells back.

He quickly yanks off his other boot so hard that it probably stretches the leather. Then he slowly makes his way down the hall, suddenly self-conscious of the mismatched sounds coming from his mismatched feet. It gets worse once he hits the tile of the kitchen. The clunk of his metal foot and the churning of the coffeemaker are now the only sounds in a house that seems to echo from the emptiness.

The walls are blank and the furniture looks like it came with the lease. It’s one of those standard issue military brownstones that members of the mid-tier ranks usually live in. Ed suspects that with Mustang’s promotion he could relocate to the suburbs north of the city, but it’s hard to imagine him living alone in a place any larger than this.

“I don’t actually want any coffee,” he says while Mustang intently watches the steady drip into the carafe.

“I figured. But I do.”

He turns away from the coffeemaker and walks over to the sink; grabbing a glass along the way and filling it to the brim. Then he moves to a small wooden table positioned up against the wall and places the water across from him, encouraging Ed to sit.

Ed takes the offered seat and crosses his left leg over his right to avoid making any noise against the tile in case he starts trembling. Here in the harsh light of the kitchen, he feels more exposed than he did in the din of the bar.

Mustang is still in full uniform, making their arrangement reminiscent of an interrogation. He’s suddenly incredibly aware of the stench of stale sweat emanating from his coat, and he recalls how ragged he looked when he inspected himself in the hotel mirror. The rancid aftertaste of beer is still coating his tongue, and the exhaustion from traveling is really starting to hit. Meanwhile, Mustang is scrutinizing him as if he was just involuntarily committed.

“I feel like I’m getting really mixed signals from you,” he says as he scans Ed’s rigid posture.

“In what way?” he asks, as if he wasn’t painfully aware of the confused and conflicted messages sputtering from every corner of his brain.

“In every way. It’s always annoyed me that your emotions are so easy to read, but I can never tell what you’re thinking.”

“That would require _me_ to have some clue what the hell I was thinking.”

“In that case, can I posit a theory?”

“Knock yourself out,” he says casually before taking a sip of water. Bracing himself for what will surely be painful bout of psychoanalysis.

“I think something bad happened to you in Creta. Something worse than a bad one-night stand. Something that made you afraid of being around men. And now, you’re coming on to me, not because you’re actually interested, but because you’ve known me long enough to know I won’t hurt you. Am I close?”

“Not quite,” he replies.

“What am I wrong about?”

_That I am interested in you. I’m more than interested, I’m fucking captivated. I want you so badly that when I cry alone at night I run my fingers through my hair and imagine it’s you. And my heart keeps breaking a little more as each second goes by and it becomes less and less likely that I’ll ever touch your skin again._

He gulps down half the water in the glass.

“Some bad things happened in Creta. But it wasn’t anything serious enough to mess me up. It’s just been an accumulation of a lot of things. I’m stressed about Al. I haven’t been in contact with him for months. I have no clue where I’m supposed to go, or what I’m supposed to do with myself. But it’s all normal quarter-life crisis stuff.”

He takes a moment to breathe and steady his restless leg. Mustang is still listening; patiently waiting as if he were at a confessional.

“And Creta was fucking weird. I mean, I guess it’s no weirder than anywhere else in the world, but the culture shock really caught me off guard.”

“What was so different?”

“You know, the usual stuff. Traffic laws are pretty pathetic. People cook with lots of oil. Women are more repressed but homosexuality is more accepted.”

He states the last fact as if he were an archeologist simply describing the norms of a distant culture.

The gender divide was an aspect of Cretan society that he was vaguely aware of from the limited research he did before crossing the border. He spent three weeks in the library of West City University combing through the largest collection of Cretan texts in Amestris. He read every available translated work related to Creta’s scientific history, and after finishing more than ten books, he realized that not a single one had a female contributor.

He scanned through the bibliographies, where he was greeted by long lists of exclusively male names. Then he searched through the history section, civil policy, law, literature; it was all the same story. As his eyes skimmed each name, he felt a knot of anxiety twist in his stomach as he debated whether or not this was a cultural norm he would be able to silently tolerate.

He decided to investigate homosexuality purely to satisfy his own curiosity. To his surprise, there were more than thirty Cretan books listed in the library catalogue related to the topic, but he was pissed to discover that not a single one had an Amestrian translation. Logically, this made sense. Less than three hundred books in the entire collection had received translations at all, and an Amestrian publisher – no matter how open-minded – wouldn’t think it worth the investment to commission a translation for something that wouldn’t be accepted in the public mainstream.

Yet he scanned through the books anyway. Erotically running his fingers down the columns of foreign text, wondering what meaning lay behind the language barrier. His excitement was enough to dull the dismay he felt upon discovering the second-class status of women. He was even filled with a naive optimism that Creta might be some holy land waiting for him just across the brief stretch of desert.

Mustang nods his head solemnly. “Yes, I’m aware of that. I suppose one could argue that equivalent exchange can be applied to the social sciences as well.”

“I knew about it before I left. But I really wasn’t prepared for how extreme it was going to be. Like women wouldn’t talk to me in public, but men felt comfortable enough shouting sexual shit at me in the street. And being an exotic-looking foreigner really didn’t help.”

“Did you ever talk back?”

“Not really, no. I wanted to, but I never learned enough Cretan to not sound like a dumbass. But street harassment I can handle. That’s not a big deal. All the _really_ shitty stuff was purely my fault. Like I slept with a guy who thought I was a prostitute.”

Mustang actually chokes on his coffee, which makes Ed smile. After a few wet coughs into his arm all he’s able to muster is a sharp, “What?!”

“Yeah, I didn’t realize it until he tried handing me money as he was leaving.”

He’s lying, but maybe if he can pretend that it’s nothing more than a funny story, then it will eventually come true.

“Did he proposition you beforehand?”

“In hindsight, I think he did, but I only knew a few hundred words of Cretan at the time, so I sort of just… smiled and nodded.”

He can hear his voice tick up a notch as the lie crosses his lips. Mustang has never underestimated his intelligence before, but maybe just this once he’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Was that your first experience?”

He shakes his head as memories of his first time suddenly start flooding back. The images are both hazy and sharp, like when the anesthesia starts to kick in before surgery.

“No, he was the rebound from the guy I slept with when I only knew a couple dozen words.”

Mustang laughs. “Why would you sleep with someone right after getting off the train?” His tone is light-hearted, which Ed appreciates. The last thing he wants right now is to have a breakdown in Mustang’s kitchen.

“I don’t know. He politely offered. Isn’t that a good enough reason as any? He wasn’t terrible though. He was the first, but he was fine. I’m never going to see him again anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Mustang’s expression seems to darken, and Ed suddenly regrets letting the casualness of his tone waver.

“Do you really think the first person you sleep with doesn’t matter?”

 _Did you?_ He almost asks, but some measure of courtesy holds him back.

“Now I do. But back then I didn’t.”

Mustang smiles. “You mean the distant past of the two months ago?”

“Hey, it’s been a learning curve. No one ever told me about shit like this.”

He wishes he could blame all of his bad decisions on simple inexperience, but in reality, he had a bad habit of voluntarily subjecting himself to avoidable pain. Thus far, his only standard for sleeping with someone was that they express a modicum of interest. An idiot could tell you that relationships based on that foundation could only ever end in suffering.

“Do you wish someone had talked to you about all this?” Mustang asks, and Ed can’t help the shudder that rattles his shoulders.

“Maybe, but not you. You seem more fucked up in this area than me, so I don’t know what help you’d have been.”

He instantly regrets the harshness of his words, and hopes that Mustang is accustomed enough to his moods to not take it personally.

He just sighs dejectedly, which makes Ed feel like the object of a parent’s disappointment.

“Did you ever talk to your brother about what you were feeling?”

_Did you ever tell him you like men?_

“No. I always made the excuse that it was unfair to talk to him about stuff like that when he didn’t have a body. But after he got his body back, I had no excuse other than I didn’t want to deal with it. I doubt he’ll care. I have a feeling he knows anyway.”

He knows that assumption is a bit of a reach. All his brother knows for certain is that he doesn’t want to be with Winry. He told him that he thought of her too much like a sister and left it at that. The matter never came up again, and he was content for now to let it be.

“You probably shouldn’t presume that he knows.”

Mustang’s too damn intuitive for his own good.

“I know. I’m just making a lot of really bad decisions at the moment. And I’d like to wait to tell him until I can get my shit together a bit more.”

If he’s being honest with himself, he’ll probably avoid telling Al for as long as he can get away with it.

“Well, at least you’re getting your bad decisions out of the way now.”

Ed almost laughs at how wrong he is.

“I think I should have filled my quota for bad decisions eight years ago. But at least I didn’t make any life-ruining mistakes in Creta. I don’t even think sleeping with the guy who thought I was a prostitute cracks my top-fifty list.”

“I see your self-loathing masochistic phase hasn’t run its course yet.”

“At what point does something stop being a phase and just become a personality trait? ‘Cause I don’t think it’s something I’m gonna outgrow anytime soon.”

He finishes the last of his water. The hydration and adrenaline have sobered him up considerably, which means he no longer has any excuse to continue talking.

“The first guy I slept with, he wanted to use me for connections. He was trying to get a visa to study in Amestris. After him, I really should have taken it as a sign that I should stop. But then I slept with that second guy, and just a week later I went home with someone else. He runs the linguistics department at this university I visited in the south-west. He was older. Probably early thirties.”

He doesn’t lift his eyes to see Mustang’s reaction.

“And… it was bad. It was really bad. We did some stuff, but then he started getting really demanding and shit. I left, but the next day I had appointments with two other professors at the university. But when I showed up they made it clear that I’d been black-balled. Sure, at the end of the day going home with the guy wasn’t that bad a mistake. It wasn’t a ‘commit the ultimate taboo and lose half your limbs and your brother’s body’ kind of mistake. But that was still the first time I let myself get blackout drunk. Alone and off cheap booze to add insult to injury."

Mustang’s eyes are downcast. The soft lines around his mouth more pronounced in the unforgiving light.

“You shouldn’t make a habit of that,” he says wearily. Ed can sense there’s a history there that he has no right to ask about.

“I’m not planning on it. I also didn’t plan on coming back so soon. Originally, I was going to keep going west through Donabach and make it all the way to the ocean. I figured that even if I couldn’t find any alchemy, seeing the ocean would still be something worth my while. I made it all the way to Barca, which is this obnoxiously beautiful town right on the western border. It was my last night there when I met this guy. Don’t remember his name. Cretan male names are all really long. He lived with his parents, which is normal there. People usually live with their parents until they get married. But something about it just felt so childish. I don’t know, maybe that’s just my orphan bias.”

He can tell that he’s rambling. His leg is shaking so hard it’s rattling his entire body.

“But anyway, he said his parents would be out for the night. And after we were undressed he asked if he could fuck my automail port.”

Mustang’s eyes shoot open and his jaw drops a bit in disbelief. Ed can’t recall a time when he’s ever looked so taken aback. He wonders if he’s actually shocked by the scenario, or if he’s just stunned that these words are coming out of the mouth of someone who will probably forever exist in his mind as less than five feet tall.

“Yeah, my reaction too. At first I thought I’d mistranslated him, but no, I got it right. But don’t worry, I got out of it fine. A lot better than him anyway. I may have sterilized him with my metal knee, but sometimes that’s how it goes.”

He hears Mustang give a small chuckle under his breath.

“But after that, I couldn’t stand being in that goddamn country a minute longer. So the next day I exchanged my ticket and got a one-way pass back to this hellhole.”

He finishes the last sentence on a whisper as he realizes how dangerously close he is to crying. The soothing effect of the alcohol has almost completely faded by now, and the disjointed mutters in his brain are starting to devolve into chaotic white noise. The telltale signs of an anxiety attack seem to be hovering just above his defenses. If he were alone, he’d ride it out and get it out of his system, but the dread of Mustang watching him fall apart is making his vision spin.

“I’m gonna get more water,” he rasps.

“Okay,” Mustang replies, but he’s already standing up and walking over to the sink. He turns on the tap and slowly inhales through his nose and exhales through his mouth while watching the liquid fill the glass. He drinks half of it immediately and fills it to the top again. Then he sets it down on the counter and pulls off his coat. The constricting weight of the fabric is making him hot, and the stench is making him nauseous.

After a few more deep breaths, it feels like the worst has passed, and he’s in no immediate danger of fainting or vomiting. But now he needs to run damage control, which entails convincing Mustang that he’s not a complete dysfunctional mess.

“But you see what I mean?” He walks back over to the table and takes his seat, throwing his coat on the back of the chair. “Sure, this type of shit sucks, but it happens to everybody.”

“As someone with a lot of experience in this field, I can safely say that your encounters have been exceptionally terrible. If that’s any comfort.”

He knows that Mustang means well, but his reassurance is anything but comforting. He wants him to say that these experiences are completely normal. They’re just milestones that everybody goes through. You build character, learn from your mistakes, but at the end of the day life goes on. All he wants is some reassurance that everyone else is as miserable as he is. That the world hasn’t unfairly singled him out for more unnecessary bullshit.

“Maybe I’m the problem then,” he laughs dejectedly.

“Maybe you are.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” he says with as much sarcasm as he can rally.

“What I mean is, and I don’t want this to come across like you bear any responsibility whatsoever, but why did you decide to sleep with those men in the first place?”

Mustang should know better than to ask him complicated questions like that. He’s not even sure if he has a satisfying answer. He never really tried to justify it to himself. He was lonely, and horny, and bored. And figured this was shit a lot of people did when they were all of those things. But maybe he was being too lenient with himself. Maybe it was naive to think that he could survive the early years of his life without a medley of issues that would manifest themselves in disturbing and self-destructive ways.

“I don’t know,” he sighs wearily. “I guess because… sex is hard to earn. And when someone offers it feels ungrateful to turn them down. I know that’s fucked up. It’s not like I feel obligated or anything. It’s just that until two months ago, I never imagined that anyone could be attracted to me. And then out of nowhere, men started looking at me, and I was afraid that each one might be the last.”

“So where do I fit into the picture?” Mustang asks quietly.

Ed is momentarily confused by the question. Until he remembers in a flash of horror that he originally came into this house with the express intention of initiating sex. The thought seems so distant and bizarre that he has to repress the urge to curse himself out loud.

“You’re the result of exhaustion, alcohol, and a brief psychotic episode.” All pathetic excuses, but his act has been convincing enough so far.

“Fair enough,” Mustang shrugs and settles back into his chair. Ed can’t tell if he’s satisfied or just desperate to move no to another topic. Either way, he’s thankful that Mustang is giving him more leeway than he deserves.

“So, you prefer it here in Amestris? Life will probably be more difficult for you here than it would be in Creta.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Ed scoffs, remembering that at some point he’s going to have to adjust to the reality of living as an oppressed minority, and just how fun that’ll be.

“I probably won’t feel this way a week from now, but at the moment I’d rather take a vow of abstinence than go back to Creta.”

“And you’re _sure_ what you went through wasn’t permanently traumatizing?” Mustang asks jokingly.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I learned my lesson and I’m not gonna do shit like that anymore.”

“You shouldn’t think of it like a child burning their hand on the stove and learning not to touch it again. Intimacy and relationships are bizarre. You can be with someone for a long time, and then out of nowhere the smallest thing can distort your whole perception of them. And it can be so confusing and infuriating that a single person can have such a significant effect on you. I never had any really terrible experiences with men like you did, granted I didn’t date men for very long, but I’ve still had some awful experiences. Remember the two percent of women who I said were bad people? Well, there were just two of them.”

“You’ve dated a hundred women?!” he blurts out without thinking.

“I don’t have a list, but roughly,” Mustang responds, seemingly amused. “And bear in mind that my definition of dating is very lenient. Anyway, the first woman was a private at Eastern Command. We met shortly after I was promoted to Colonel, and she came on to me really hard. And it is partly my fault for reciprocating her advances in the first place, but I made it clear that I didn’t want anything serious. I mean, we couldn’t have had anything serious anyway with the fraternization code. But when I tried to end it, she threatened to report our relationship to the Court Martial Office. And strongly implied that she was going to accuse me of rape.”

Whatever relaxed atmosphere they’ve been able to cultivate dissipates immediately. Ed feels his spine stiffen involuntarily as all thought of his own problems disappear in a flash.

“I immediately called Hughes about it,” Mustang continues, “and by divine coincidence, his department had been investigating her for weeks on the suspicion that she was smuggling bullets out of various armories and selling them illicitly. They had enough evidence to detain her, so Hughes came over from Central to conduct the interrogation.

"Sure enough, she tried to deflect the charges by saying I forced her into it, and then she accused me of taking her to my home and forcing myself on her. That was a serious slip-up on her end though since she had never been to my place before. Hughes caught this, so he asked her to describe the event in detail, and followed it up by asking her what my house looked like, and naturally she got every detail wrong. I didn’t even have a house at the time. I was living in an apartment.”

“So you and her never even got around to first date smalltalk?” he asks in a pathetic attempt to lighten the mood.

“Like I said, it was very brief.” He smiles sadly. “Anyway, her claim lost all credibility after that, and she was going to be put on trial for theft and trafficking. I informed General Grumman about the affair, but since it was brief and she wasn’t in my direct chain of command, he just put a demerit on my record and sent me on my way. He seemed to think the experience itself was punishment enough.”

Mustang finishes the last of his coffee, which must be bitter and cold by now.

“The case never went to trial though. She made bail and was on house arrest in the days leading up to it, but somehow she managed to escape. Someone obviously helped her, but we had no leads on who it might have been or where they might have gone.”

Mustang stares off wistfully, probably calculating the degree of personal information he’s willing to divulge. Ed wouldn’t begrudge him if he stopped here. He’s already given him more than he ever could have asked for.

“She was missing for over a month,” he continues. “That month was pure hell. I panicked every time the phone rang, got anxious being alone in public. I even slept with my gloves on, but was still terrified that she might try to go after Hughes or someone from my team. I spent every minute of every day falling into blackholes thinking about all the ways she could ruin my life.

“Then she turned up out of the blue in an unrelated arms bust. Southern Command coordinated a sting operation to take down a trafficking ring that was selling weapons to members of the Aerugian militia. There was a shoot out in one of their warehouses, and she and one other person died in the crossfire. I only heard about it several days later when they were able to definitively ID her.”

Ed can see a slight tremor in his hands as he crosses his arms across his chest and leans back until he’s slouched against the back of the chair.

“I honestly don’t care though. I don’t think she deserved to die, but I’m not going to pretend that I have any sympathy for her. She only slept with me in the first place for blackmail and extortion. When I found out she was dead, all I felt was relief. I thought that maybe as time went on, I’d start to feel pity for her. But now more than anything, I’m just angry. I’m so angry that she destroyed my peace of mind and wasted so much of my time. And I hate that she made me a less trusting person.”

Ed is at a complete loss for what to say. His own drama suddenly feels offensively petty in comparison to what Mustang just told him.

“What month was it?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

“The month she was missing?” he clarifies.

“Roughly mid-February through late-March of 1913.”

Ed quickly does the mental math and tries to recall his whereabouts during that period.

“I think I saw you then. I think that was around the time I got back from Wellesley.”

Mustang contemplatively stares into space for a moment before nodding his head.

“You’re right. Did you notice anything strange?”

The memories swarm back vividly. It was a Friday. He remembers that fact because his train just arrived in East City that morning, and he was beyond pissed that Mustang was forcing him to immediately report to Eastern Command rather than letting him recuperate for the weekend.

It never got too cold in East City, but the bitter wind and the physical strain of his latest mission had caused a deep throb to settle into his ports. It was the last day of the budget quarter, and the office was in a frenzy trying to annotate reports and categorize expenses. Mustang forcefully sat him down on his couch and jammed a pen into his hand, ordering him to write up a summary of his report within the next hour.

He complained and pouted, whined about his ports and obstinately crossed his arms until Mustang looked like he was on the verge of tears.

_Edward, please just write something. Anything. You can revise it later, I just need to get something in the system by tonight. If I don’t get this on the record, your expenses will put us over budget in the next quarter. So please, just write something._

Those words pierced through his obstinate shell and clenched his heart in a vice grip. He nodded slowly, and began dutifully writing up a simplified account of his latest mission. Mustang breathed a sigh of relief, and returned to sit at his desk. Ed stole quick glances at him between pen strokes. He wasn’t even pretending to sort through his own paperwork. He just sat there with his head buried in his palm, looking so miserable that Ed felt shame prickle beneath his skin for giving him such a hard time.

Looking at Mustang, it reminded him of the time his mother dropped a heavy pot on her foot and broke two toes. Al ran to Pinako’s for help, and he just sat there on the kitchen floor while she sobbed and rocked back and forth from the pain. He didn’t know what to do besides sit next to her and remain silent; desperate to soothe her, but fully aware that nothing he said or did would be of any help. Meanwhile, his mind reeled in confusion at the sight of the person who nurtured him from birth reduced to such a state of helplessness and vulnerability.

It was scary, and the memory never faded.

 

 _I can go type this up in the other room. It’s not a big deal_ , he said, sensing that Mustang wanted to be alone.

_It’s fine. I always type up your reports anyway._

_What? Why you?_

He knew that someone had to do it. He had the handwriting of a five-year-old doing a bad impression of shorthand, but he always assumed that someone from the typing pool took care of it.

Mustang sighed. _I’m the only one who can read your handwriting._

Ed can’t remember whether or not he cried about that later. He may have blacked that part out.

 

“No, not really,” he lies. “What about the other woman?” he asks, hoping to move on.

“Oh, she wasn’t so bad. She just stole my car.”

His tone is so nonchalant that Ed can’t help the burst of laughter that comes out of his mouth.

“Wait, is that why we took a taxi to the restaurant?!”

“No,” he laughs. “My car’s just in the shop at the moment. This was more than eight years ago.”

The word ‘years’ suddenly sobers Ed from his mirth. Throughout this whole evening, Mustang has been recounting his relationships in terms of years. Five years, eight years, eighteen years… It really hits him how disparate they are in stages of their lives. Even as a kid, he never thought of Mustang as superior than him, but he never really considered the fact that Mustang was already a fully-formed person by the time Ed barged into his life.

Meanwhile, he feels like he’s still scrambling together bits and pieces trying to make himself whole.

“You’re right,” Mustang continues. “These situations happen to a lot of people. And as long as there are terrible people in the world they will keep happening. But just because they’re common, it doesn’t mean you should treat them as insignificant.”

“They’re not insignificant on their own, just when held up against all the other shit I’ve lived through.”

“I can understand that. Does it make you feel weak?”

“Sort of,” – Everything makes him feel weak – “but more it scares me to think how I’m supposed to get through the rest of my life if simple shit like this can make me so unhappy.”

“That might also just be a side effect of growing up. When you’re a kid you can survive and adapt to anything, and it gets harder as you get older.” He pauses, running his thumb along the curve of his cup. “But then it starts to get easier again,” he finishes, his expression less than convincing.

“It’s getting late.” He glances up towards the clock above stove. It’s about a quarter past eleven.

“Do you want me to call you a cab?”

_No, please, don’t make me leave._

“Would it be okay if I stay the night? I can sleep on the couch. I just really don’t want to spend another night in a hotel.”

He braces himself for rejection, but to his surprise, Mustang doesn’t even hesitate.

“Sure. I have a guest bedroom. And I’ll lend you some clothes to sleep in.”

“Thanks,” he manages to choke out; a sudden spike of arousal coursing through him at the thought of sleeping in his clothes. Surrounded by his scent.

“What time does your train leave tomorrow?”

“Um… one.” He honestly can’t remember. He hasn’t even bought his ticket yet.

“We can split a cab back to your hotel if you like. Or if you want to sleep in and leave later, that’s fine too. I’ll leave you the spare key. Just slide it through the mail flap after you lock up.”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Mustang smiles while collecting their empty cups and bringing them over to the sink.

“Seriously Mustang, thanks. You really didn’t deserve any of this.”

“You know, I think you're the only person in my life who calls me by my last name.”

“What does everybody else call you?”

“Usually one of four things: Roy, Brigadier General, Sir, or if you’re my mailman, Mr. Mustang.”

“I’m not calling you Mr. Mustang.”

“Then if you want, you can just call me Roy.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just a heads up, after this chapter update times might take a little longer since I had to largely rewrite the second half of this fic. You know how it be. I'll still try to update every 1-2 weeks. I'm also blissymbolics on tumblr if anybody would like to chat.  
> This was actually the first chapter I drafted in full. Enjoy!

There’s a full-length mirror in Mustang’s guest room. The furniture in here is similar to the rest of the house: boring, cheap, absent any trace of personality. Ed wouldn’t be surprised if Roy’s bedroom down the hall turned out to be a mirror image of this one.

Even in his head, it feels unnatural calling him by his first name. Roy, Roy, Roy… Roy Mustang. He wonders if that’s what his mother planned on naming him. Probably not. His knowledge of Xingese is extremely limited, but he learned from Al that the ‘oi’ sound doesn’t exist in the language. Even if his mother named him Roy, it’s probably not what she would have called him.

He examines himself closely in the mirror; analyzing how his facial features have changed since they last saw each other. It’s bizarre to think that his body will never stop changing. That this form is just as impermanent as all his previous ones. He pulls his clean hair out of its ponytail and rubs at the tender base of his scalp; combing through the strands with his fingers and arranging it neatly around his shoulders. The color has grown slightly darker at the roots, but he supposes that’s a natural part of growing up too.

To his disappointment, the plain t-shirt and sweatpants Roy gave him only smell of detergent. He lifts the collar of the shirt to his nose and gazes at himself in the mirror while inhaling deeply. He buries his face in the fabric, searching for a scent, but finds nothing. But that doesn’t change the fact that Roy has worn these clothes before. Even if he can’t smell him, some trace of him is now on his body, and this may be the closest physical contact he’ll ever achieve.

Roy will never want him. He knows this, yet he can’t accept it. He refuses to accept it. Not until he’s beaten bloody and every last shred of hope is scorched to ashes before his eyes. He’ll risk every hint of intimacy they’ve cultivated for one last chance to hold him in his arms.

It’s all disgustingly melodramatic, and he hates himself for it.

After drinking three glasses of water, the alcohol in his system has been completely neutralized. There’s no reason he should be thinking this way. Less than twelve hours ago, he was fully prepared to let him go. To sever that last thread binding him to his childhood; rooting him to his former self and stifling his ability to grow.

Maybe he can’t cut the thread himself. Maybe he needs Mustang to cut it for him.

Why can’t he stop hurting himself? Over and over again, he just can’t seem to stop.

 

He gently knocks on the door.

“Come in,” his voice calls from inside.

Ed hesitates a moment; his hand loosely gripping the doorknob, simultaneously begging his body to walk away and urging it to move forward.

He gently twists the knob and pushes the door open.

Roy is on the opposite side of the room; sitting on a wide window ledge with a cigarette pinched between his fingers. The window is cracked, and even from the doorway Ed can feel the draft. Roy looks up guiltily when he enters, but doesn’t bother trying to conceal the evidence. The smell has already permeated the room anyway.

“I didn’t know you smoke,” he says casually, trying to keep any judgment from slipping into his tone.

“You drive me to addiction, Fullmetal.” He smiles weakly while examining the half-burnt cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

“I’m literally taking years off your life,” he says while walking over towards the window.

“You did that every time I got your expense reports.” He takes a long drag and exhales out the crack.

While his eyes are averted, Ed stealthily moves to sit on the opposite end of the ledge; careful to keep at least two feet of space between them. The wood is cold from the draft, but it would feel too awkward to stand and look down at him. Although, it’s laughable to think that he could make things between them anymore awkward if he tried.

“You know, I lost a couple years off my life. When I was up at Briggs and got impaled by that piece of rebar. I healed myself by stealing energy from my own body. I don’t exactly know what the long-term effects will be, but I’m fine with that.”

“You never told me about that,” Roy says. He sounds curious, but not accusatory, which is a relief since Ed blatantly lied to him about it two years ago.

It was a few days after the Promised Day while they were both still confined to the hospital. Mustang had asked him for a full oral report on his whereabouts since he went AWOL up north. He told him about Kimblee, the collapsing mine, and the chimeras who carried him to a doctor, but he significantly downplayed the severity of his injury to avoid admitting that he needed to use his own life force as the equivalent exchange. He hadn’t planned on lying, but given Roy’s condition, it seemed irresponsible to tell the truth.

“Yeah, well, you were still trying to teach yourself braille, and I didn’t want to introduce any crazy ideas into your head.”

It seems to take a second for Roy to understand his implication.

“Do you really think I would have tried something like that?”

“If I was in your place, I probably would have. At least I would have tried,” he answers honestly.

“Have you tried anything since losing your alchemy?”

“No,” –he shakes his head– “but anything I try to do to reverse that will probably affect Al too, so it’s not an option. If I were the only guinea pig… I don’t know. No point in worrying about hypotheticals.”

He laughs under his breath. It’s hilarious to pretend that he hasn’t spent the better part of his life falling headfirst into hypothetical hell.

“You could probably ask Dr. Marcoh about the side effects of healing yourself that way.”

Roy crushes his cigarette in a ceramic ashtray sitting between the two of them. It looks like he could have gotten a few more drags out of it, and Ed feels irrational guilt coil in his gut at the thought that he may have forced him to discard that five cenz worth of nicotine.

“I could, but I really don’t want to know.”

He recognizes that he’s still young enough that he doesn’t need to know.

“Speaking of premature death, why’d you start smoking?”

He’s eager to change the subject, but also genuinely curious. Throughout their years working together he never caught him smoking or carrying cigarettes. The smell never clung to his clothing, and the rest of his house smells fine. It’s sad to think that this might be some guilty secret that he confines to this small enclave of his bedroom.

Once the last wisps of smoke dissipate, Roy reaches back to latch the window shut.

“When I was in basic training, smokers got special breaks while the rest of us had to keep training.”

“You started smoking so you could slack off?”

“You have your early adulthood mistakes, I have mine. After basic, I stopped for a few years, then started again after Ishval. Then I stopped again, and now… well, we’re in an unprecedented time of peace, so really I have no excuse.”

Suddenly, a loud clash echoes in the street below. Both of them quickly turn in a synchronized motion to look out the window, where they see a large, grey cat rummaging through a toppled trashcan lying across the street. The pale sheen of its fur exceptionally bright in the overbearing street light of the middle class neighborhood.

“My neighbor’s cat,” Roy remarks. “She does that sometimes.”

He stands up from the ledge so that he can draw the curtains across the wide double window. The commotion in the street must have made him realize that people on the outside could potentially see them through the window as long as they kept the light on.

Ed watches closely as he tugs the edges of the fabric together. The light from the street begins to shrink, and eventually it coalesces into a single vertical beam that runs down the length of his body, narrowing further into a small stripe that extends beautifully down the ridge of his cheek.

Goosebumps tingle along Ed’s arms as the attraction he’s been suppressing all night floods into his cheeks and around his neck. The instinct to stare rears its head again. An impulse to commit every detail to memory. A sense of certainty that Roy’s profile in that small streak of light is one of the most beautiful sights he’ll ever witness.

Once the curtains are completely closed, Roy smooths down the dense fabric and ties the laces together. Now their only light source is a small lamp resting on the nightstand by the bed.

“What?” Roy asks after sitting back down on the ledge. Ed is briefly confused by the question. Until he realizes that he was just blatantly gaping at him. To make matters worse, his face feels like it’s still frozen in an expression that could be interpreted as reverence.

He drops his eyes to his feet and hopes that his blush isn’t visible in the dim light.

“Nothing, I was just thinking… you seem so much younger now than you used to.”

His response comes out shaky and awkward, but at least it’s not a lie. It was actually one of the first things he noticed after walking into his office earlier today, which now feels like weeks ago.

“That’s because you’ve gotten older. And being out of uniform probably helps too.”

Ed tries to keep his eyes distracted by taking in the layout of the room. He glances at the large bed with its plain, rumbled sheets that are bunched up at the foot of the mattress. There’s a black telephone sitting next to the lamp on the nightstand, which must be what wakes him up in the middle of the night for military emergencies. The rest of the room is empty apart from a clock, a tall dresser, and some hooks on the wall where his uniform is hanging.

The words sad and lonely come to mind when describing the mood of his home, but if he didn’t know Mustang so well, he’d be inclined to call it creepy. Ed has very few personal possessions himself, but how can a man in his thirties truly own so little? Or maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s all presentation designed to conceal his true identity, but that thought is no less depressing.

“Weird question, but why’d you never get married?”

He’s crossing so many lines, but they’ve already spent the night pouring their guts out to each other. He might as well ride this fleeting intimacy as far as it will take him.

To his relief, Roy just gives a soft laugh.

“Oh right, I forgot. You’re from the boonies where everyone gets married at seventeen.”

“That’s rude,” he laughs. “My mom was eighteen.”

“You’re practically a spinster then.” He falls quiet for a few seconds. “I don’t really have an answer. It just hasn’t happened yet.”

“Is it something you want?”

“On my list of priorities, it falls just below getting my shoes resoled.”

Ed knows that he should drop the discussion there. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“What about Hawkeye?”

“That’s never going to happen for reasons that I may or may not explain to you one day.”

The question was meant to be facetious, and the formality and firmness of his reply catches him off guard.

“And not one of the hundred women made you think twice?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light-hearted.

“My stock answer is that my lifestyle doesn’t lend itself well to long-term commitments.”

Well, there’s the vaguest and most bullshit answer he could have asked for.

“Because you’re afraid they could become targets?”

“Potentially.”

Even at his worst, Ed can tell that one-word answers telegraph a desire to end a conversation. At least his ability to read social cues has improved in recent years, except now he just chooses to ignore them.

“And the non-stock answer?”

For the first time in the evening, Ed can see a flicker of frustration in his expression.

“I don’t think I’d be happy married.”

The question _Are you happy now?_ hangs heavy in the air. It rests on the tip of his tongue, but he restrains himself. He’s intuitive enough to already know the answer.

“Okay, there’s no right time to say this. I had a crush on you when I was thirteen.”

His vision flashes red. Sweat pools at the back of his neck. Something heavy and sharp lurches in his chest. Some hopelessly desperate corner of his brain tries to convince him that this is all a dream. That he’s currently fast asleep in Roy’s guest room, restlessly twisting in the sheets, trying to wake up from this nightmare. But the clock on the wall is still ticking. The seconds moving impossibly slow. As if the world decided to spin just a bit slower to drag out his torment.

He can’t think right now. He can’t predict what will happen within the next few seconds. He’s drifting in dark water, and it’s terrifying.

“I thought you hated me when you were thirteen.”

“That’s because I had a crush on you.”

A few more seconds tick by, then Mustang gives an amused huff and pushes himself up from the window ledge. He paces a few steps away without any clear course in mind, then crosses his arms in front of his chest and stares down at his feet.

“I’m not exactly sure what to do with this information.” He’s smiling awkwardly. It must feel incredibly claustrophobic to be trapped in your own bedroom with nowhere to run.

“That’s cool. I get it. I’ve only ever known you as an adult and you’ve only ever known me as a kid. And then in one night, I drag you into all of my life’s annoying adult drama. But just for the record, I never really stopped liking you. I’m confused about everything else in my life, but not how I feel about you.”

He’s fully aware that he just destroyed his last escape route. He could have laughed it off. Said that it was just a stupid crush. He got over it quickly. Stop taking everything so seriously, Mustang.

That was his last protective measure, and he just incinerated it.

“Damn. I didn’t see that coming.” His smile is gone. He paces a few more steps away before sitting down on the edge of the bed, directly across from Ed.

“You honestly didn’t suspect anything?” From his perspective, he couldn’t have been more obvious.

“No. Even tonight, I figured you just wanted to come home with me because you were upset. And I was convenient.”

“You’re actually the most inconvenient person in the world for this type of thing. You must have pretty shitty self-esteem.”

Why can’t he stop insulting him? What the fuck is wrong with him?

“I’m thirty-three, Ed,” he laughs. “I feel like I already have one foot in the grave. I’m really not the type of person you should be interested in.”

“Then what type of person should I be interested in?”

“Someone who dates men would be a good start.”

“You said you like men.”

“I do, but I don’t date them.”

“Why not?”

Ed crosses his arms across his chest and digs his nails into his forearms; distracting and punishing himself with the mild pain.

“You know why.” That spark of frustration is back. “I wouldn’t have made it half this far politically if I openly dated men. Gay men get unfairly ousted all the time. Shit gets planted in their desks, higher-ups spread rumors, cadets get paid off to come forward with made-up harassment claims.”

He sighs deeply and runs his fingers through his damp hair; looking like he could desperately use another cigarette.

“You know,” he continues, “there were rumors about us. They’ve been around ever since I first scouted you.”

Ed immediately understands what he’s referring to. The rumors about their relationship seemed to circulate around the military spheres like a bad cold. Everyone heard them, only a few believed them, but they followed him in whispers wherever he went.

No one ever told him directly. He inferred it from the actions of others.

The doctor at his mandatory physical who interrogated him about every scrap and bruise on his body. Carefully inspecting each mark, lingering over a burn he received from a hot pipe, and cautiously asking if it came from a cigarette.

The military psychologist who cozied up to him in the cafeteria. Asking if Mustang treated him well, how often did they see each other, where did they usually meet? He managed to keep his demeanor perfectly neutral when she handed him her phone number, but he crumpled the paper in his metal fist once she was out of eyesight.

The reporter who kept pestering him on the train. Pretending to make casual conversation before mentioning that he was working on a story about sexual abuse in the military. He seemed to interpret Ed’s silence and annoyance as confirmation, rather than embarrassment that his little brother was sitting directly across from them.

He knew there were more than a few who assumed the worst, and that defending himself was pointless. No matter what he said or did, they would only take it as affirmation.

“Yeah, I know,” he admits quietly. “Even back then I knew.”

The look on Roy’s face is heart-breaking. He’s probably been holding out hope for years that Ed managed to make it through his stint in the military naively unaware of the depraved gossip surrounding their relationship.

“Did you know that one of the major generals in Central tried to launch an investigation about it? He had no evidence of course. It was just a power play to try to smear my name. And yours. Nothing ever came of it, but if I had been dating men back then… that might have been enough to get people on his side. And if we started seeing each other now… They wouldn’t have cause to launch an investigation since you’re not a minor or an enlisted member anymore, but it would definitely reinvigorate some conspiracy theories.”

He understands what Roy is doing. He’s laying out every practical reason why this will never happen; trying to convince him to walk away without outright rejecting him.

“Did I ever meet any of these assholes?”

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe in passing. I tried to keep you out of it as much as possible.”

“You didn’t have to. I knew pretty much everything. Not the high-level conspiracy stuff, but everything else.”

“How did it make you feel?”

_If you knew, then how could you possibly want this?_

“It made me angry that some people thought you were doing stuff like that. But it also made me feel guilty. Because it’s what I wanted.”

There it is. The worst thing he could have possibly said.

“You didn’t really want that.”

No, of course he didn’t. But in all honesty, he never once deliberated the ethics of it until this very night. Why would he worry about the morality of a relationship that only existed in his imagination? Besides, as a kid, he always figured that equality in a relationship was just a matter of intelligence, and he recognized that he was objectively smarter than Mustang. Yet now, intelligence feels like the least important factor in the world.

As much as he hates to admit it, if Mustang had approached him back then, if he’d done the things that everyone suspected… Ed would have detested him for it later. But in the moment, he would have welcomed it.

“In hindsight, no,” he answers.

Roy inhales deeply, and exhales a few seconds later. He glances around the room, grips his hair, and takes a few more deep breaths.

“It’s the main reason why I always kept you at arms length. Why I sent you away so often and barely kept any contact. And in retrospect, I regret it a bit. Sometimes it felt like I was prioritizing my reputation over your well-being. I was so paranoid that people might think I was abusing a child that I didn’t support you as much as I should have.”

Ed can read his words between the lines.

_Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe if I’d acted more like a parent, then you wouldn’t feel this way._

“I’m not a child anymore.”

“Yes, you are.”

Those words cause the dormant ache around his port to pound in time with his blood. He feels smaller than he did the first time Mustang spoke to him; back when he was so tiny that he could be easily lifted with one hand. His grown body feels weak and sensitive: a child’s body vulnerable to every prick of pain that his adult form would shrug off unaffected.

He’s not a child though. He’s a grown man with a genius mind who’s been to the four corners of hell and clawed his way back through sacrificing everything just for the privilege of survival. And yet in this moment, he’s consumed with the primal urge to wrap himself in his arms and cry until his head spins.

“So what do I need to do to become an adult?” He’s reaching the point of desperation.

“You’re always a kid to people who knew you at that age.”

The cruelty in those words is how true they are.

“So I could live to be eighty and we’d be having this exact same conversation?”

“I think it’s wishful thinking that we’ll both live that long.”

Two tears slide down his cheeks and drip onto his thighs. More follow. A steady stream darkening the fabric of Mustang’s sweatpants.

“Okay, so you’re rejecting me. Are we on the same page there?”

He waits for an answer; clinging to that weak thread of hope just in case the world starts spinning in the opposite direction.

“What even drew you to me in the first place? I’m genuinely curious.”

Ed is stunned and slightly angry at his non-answer. It feels cruel to drag this out when he’s already clearly made up his mind.

Besides, he doesn’t even have an appropriate answer. He could list all the generic reasons: he’s smart, brave, attractive, loyal, but none of those adjectives are what ensnared him. It was a magnetic pull; a current constantly thrumming beneath his skin that spiked to dangerous heights whenever they got too close.

It was an unshakeable certainty that Roy was the most beautiful person in the world.

It was illogical, and objectively incorrect, but so true that he would accept no counter argument. It was similar to how so many people could believe in a benevolent God despite all evidence to the contrary. It was fundamental truth.

But he will never, ever say any of that out loud.

“I just like you. Do I need a list of bullet points justifying why?”

Roy almost looks disappointed at his response, and Ed seethes at the idea that he may have asked the question just to fish for compliments.

“No, I guess not. But even you have to see how terrible an idea this would be.”

“Of course I do. But I haven’t had one good idea in my entire life, and I’m not about to start now.”

“This isn’t just about you!” he shouts. His voice sends a bolt of fear straight down his spine. Not fear that Roy will hurt him, but fear that after tonight there will truly be nothing left to salvage.

“I know you’ve been thinking about this for the past six years, but I’m going through a bit of a paradigm shift at the moment. When I look away and hear your voice I still see that punk-ass kid who kept prank calling me and transmuting my pen ink into acid. I remember seeing you in the hospital, too small to fill the bed. And I know I didn’t act like it, but I really did care about you. And maybe if we met today as strangers it wouldn’t be an issue, but I can’t just forget that I watched you grow up.”

The thread is cut. He lost the bet. It’s over. All he can do is let the world keep spinning.

“Okay,” he breathes. “If that’s it, then that’s it. Good night.”

He stands up from the ledge, his joints aching from the strain. He manages to make it to the door, but the tears won’t stop; perfectly silent against the inner turmoil consuming him raw. His hand is trembling, but he summons enough control to twist the doorknob and pull himself out into the hall.

“Good night,” Roy calls softly, just before he shuts the door behind him.

 

_It’s just chemicals. It’s just chemicals._

He repeats this like a mantra. The angry, writhing energy trapped beneath his skin. The clipped sobs tearing out of his chest. The images flashing through his mind like a rolodex, replaying every interaction, every word, every touch; his brain feverishly trying to preserve and catalogue every memory of contact to torment him for the rest of his life.

He screams at his brain to stop. It’s his mind, he should be allowed control over it. But the chemicals are multiplying and dripping through his bloodstream like an IV. They’re pulsing in his foot, thrumming through his intestines, filling his mouth with saliva. He wishes he could cut a hole in his body and drain them out like a cyst.

There’s nothing else to think about. He’s in Roy’s bed, in his clothes, so close to him, but everything is in ruins. The regret will come soon, but for now he can only focus on riding out this physiological nightmare and waiting for it to break like a fever.

This is not the most painful experience of his life. So drastically far from it. So why can’t he cope? He’s been through far worse trauma without his mind sending signals to his body that this is the end of the world. That the rest of his life isn’t worth living and he just destroyed his last chance at happiness.

His brain is lying to him. After all, how can he mourn something he never had?

Tomorrow will come, and he will have lost absolutely nothing.

_This too shall pass. This too shall pass._

This is the worst it’s going to get. This night will drag him through hell and back, but by morning he’ll be slightly better. And the day after that. And years down the line, it will just be another scar that only seems to ache when he thinks about it too hard.

It will get better. This is a part of life. This is a part of being human. He should be grateful that he was gifted with a mind and body capable of feeling with such visceral intensity. This is a gift. The capacity to love is a gift. He just has no one to give it to, and it’s going to kill him.

He runs his fingers through his hair. There are people in this world who love him. He’s safe, warm, and loved. That’s far more than he deserves.

_It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm posting this wayyy ahead of schedule because I'm so embarrassed by how many typos there were in the last chapter! Apologies, that must have been really annoying. This is obviously unbeta'd, but that's no excuse. I think I corrected most of them. So enjoy this early chapter!

_His eyes roam around the walls of the doctor’s office. It’s the same room where he always received his annual physical, but the man standing above him is completely unrecognizable._

_“What can I help you with today?” he asks._

_Ed tells him that he’s had this mild pain in his leg for months. It’s nothing debilitating, but he can feel the ache in every step._

_The doctor makes him lie back on the examination table so he can run his bare hands along his knee and calf, squeezing in specific places and asking if it hurts._

_“No, no, not there,” he responds._

_“Here?” The doctor grips his leg hard and a searing pain swells beneath his skin. Like nails digging into an open wound._

_Ed screams at him to stop. Begging, trying to twist his leg away, but the doctor’s grip only tightens._

_“I need to get it all out,” he states dispassionately. It feels like his muscles are about to pop and his veins are going to burst._

_He glances down and sees that his leg is completely covered in rot. There’s green, sickly pus spewing out of his pores. Gangrene growing on his skin like mold._

_“Cut it off!” he starts screaming, kicking wildly, but his diseased leg won’t move. “Cut it off!”_

He digs his fingers into the examination table, and realizes that the material is softer than he originally thought. There’s quilted fabric beneath his hands. It’s laying over his body too. The lights of the hospital room grow dimmer, then fade away entirely.

His brain quickly absorbs the fresh sensory input as he twists his head side-to-side to shake away the remnants of the dream. He pushes down the thick duvet and rolls up the leg of his sweatpants to feel the nerveless, inanimate metal of his leg. The skin around the port is smooth and healthy, with no hint of infection. It’s been a very long time since he’s dreamt about his missing limbs.

As soon as his mind finishes clearing away the cobwebs of the dream, the memories of last night return full force. The impact hits him like a train, and he berates his brain for not dwelling on the nightmare a little while longer.

The clock on the nightstand reads 10:39, which means Mustang probably left for work hours ago. Sure enough, his shoes are missing from the entryway and the spare key he promised is sitting on the kitchen table.

Ed leaves the borrowed clothes neatly folded on the borrowed bed, only allowing himself to linger for a second. Then he mechanically dresses himself in his own clothes and walks out the front door without bothering to call a cab. His hotel is only about thirty blocks away, and the phantom pain in his leg will serve as a pleasant distraction.

He arrives back at his hotel room in a daze. He spent the entire walk over debating whether or not he should return to Risembool today, and he was still undecided. Sure, he wanted to see Winry and Granny again, but the wires in his brain were already beginning to cross and spark in a way that spelled disaster. Maybe it would be best to board up the windows and ride out whatever imminent breakdown fate had in store for him. Isolation might make it a bit easier. At the very least, he won’t have to worry about putting on a brave face for the benefit of others.

Unable to make up his mind, he collapses onto the bed and shuts his eyes, which still sting a bit from last night. When he wakes up, the clock reads 12:24. He drifts back into a state of semi-lucidity, and when he opens his eyes again it’s 1:15.

With a loud groan, he pushes himself out of bed to check the train schedule sitting on the dresser. It turns out he was correct, and the train did leave at one o’clock. Relief washes over him. He no longer has to make a decision.

He’d hoped that the stress would stifle his appetite, but the cramps in his stomach are steadily growing worse. By early evening, the hunger is too unbearable to sleep through.

Mentally, he’s still coasting in a state of relative numbness. It probably won’t last much longer though, so he shrugs on his coat and walks down to the small grocery store he passed on his walk over.

He fills his basket with simple things that won’t need to be chilled or cooked: bread, crackers, nuts, and a few apples that he probably won’t eat. In the liquor aisle, he picks out a moderately priced bottle of bourbon. He won’t repeat the same mistake he made last time. The tannic acid in the wine gave him stomach pains all through the next day.

The forced pleasantries with the cashier are draining, but the darkness of his hotel room isn’t as welcoming as he anticipated. He quickly unscrews the bottle and pours a healthy dose into one of the glasses in the bathroom. He’s never measured out a shot in his life, but he definitely pours more than one. Probably more than two. Regardless, he gulps it all down like medicine.

Once the effects start to set in, he decides that he might as well wash the rest of his clothes. On his knees over the bathtub, he scrubs everything until the fibers start to fray. The thin bar of hotel soap is gone by the time he finishes. He drains the tub, but can’t summon the energy to put anything out to dry. Instead he leaves the laundry lying there, fully exposed to the threat of mold and mildew.

He drinks until he can’t walk straight. Until he can’t crawl straight. With each glass he hopes that his unhappiness will simply start to fade away. That his mind will forget that it existed in the first place. But as soon as his imagination starts to lead him down tranquil, unfamiliar routes, the same painful memories are always waiting for him at a dead end.

Why was there such a stigma against drinking alone? That’s the only time when you should be allowed to drink. When you drink around other people, you say and do stupid shit. Why do adults pretend that alcohol is some sort of cultural symbol or social enhancer? It’s poison. You can wrap it in as many bougie layers as you like, but at the end of the day, it’s nothing more than literal poison.

From the floor, he yanks the covers off the bed and falls asleep with his back huddled against the radiator. Hoping that his dreams will transform it into the warm body of another person.

When he wakes up, the clock reads 11:59. There’s no way in hell he’s going to catch the train, so he rolls back to sleep. Eventually, the demands of his body force him to leave his cocoon. He chugs water from the faucet in a pathetic attempt to relieve the hangover, and deeply regrets not buying aspirin at the store.

He switches on the radio. There’s an orchestral performance, weather updates, advertisement jingles, news broadcasts, the day slips away as he continues taking small sips of liquor and reflexively refilling his glass. The broadcaster finally signs off at midnight, and by then the bottle is empty.

His last measure of rational intelligence is trying to communicate that this isn’t just about Mustang. That this started long before Tuesday night. Long before he even left for Creta. The melancholic episodes, the incapacitating anxiety, the irrational fears and aversions that seem to multiply by the day.

This wasn’t just heartbreak over a childhood crush. This was trauma finally catching up with him.

The crying seems to come involuntarily. Before he can stop it, his chest is heaving with bitter, violent sobs. He doesn’t even care if people in the neighboring rooms can hear him through the walls. There’s too much agony thrumming beneath his skin. It’s been sitting stagnant for ages, slowly transforming into something noxious and lethal. It’s more visceral than what he experienced the other night in Mustang’s bed. His head is spinning from hyperventilation, and he can hear his pulse pounding dangerously fast in his ears. He tugs at his hair and clenches his eyes tight; suddenly consumed with an overwhelming fear of being alone in the dark. His mouth forms the word 'mom' over and over again. He cries it into the carpet, the pain of her loss just as raw as it felt thirteen years ago.

Somehow, he manages to summon enough coordination to pull himself into the bathroom to throw up. He hasn’t eaten anything since this morning and his whole body is shaking uncontrollably.

Huddled on the tiles, he prays for sleep. He hasn’t prayed for anything since he was impossibly young.

_Please let me sleep. Please let me sleep. Dear God, please let me sleep._

 

Someone’s knocking on the door. A heavy thud pounding against his skull. He groans and tries to push himself onto his elbow, but his head starts spinning, so he returns to the cool relief of the tile. The knocking stops abruptly, and a few seconds later he can hear footsteps walking away. It was probably just housekeeping. Or management. Regardless, he really needs to get up. If he doesn’t drink a gallon of water within the next couple of minutes, he'll wind up back on the floor.

He begrudgingly pushes himself to his feet and leans against the sink; inhaling deeply to stave off another spell of nausea. He drinks from the tap until his stomach feels like it’s going to burst, then he slinks out towards the bedroom to find something to eat.

His eye catches a folded slip of paper sitting by the door. The knocker must have slid it beneath the frame. He picks it up and unfolds it carefully, then nearly starts crying again when he sees the familiar handwriting.

 

_Ed,_

_I called your house in Risembool this morning to make sure you got home safely, but your family said they didn’t even know you were back in the country._

_I told them that you probably just decided to stay in Central for a few more days, but you should call them when you have the chance to let them know you’re okay._

_Also, there’s something else I would like to talk to you about. If you’re free, I’ll be in the bar on the corner of Miller and Dodge until 1:00. I hope you come, but if you don’t want to, I completely understand._

_-Roy_

 

He checks the clock. It’s 12:02 now, and it’ll probably take him at least ten minutes to get there. He quickly rejects the possibility of not going. Right now, he needs human contact more than food and shelter. The meeting will definitely be painful. Mustang must still be angry with him, even if he won't admit it directly. But at this point, Ed will gladly take anger over isolation. Besides, Mustang is a decent enough person to extend him some measure of pity. If he starts crying, he’ll comfort him with soothing words and treat him like the child he so desperately wants to be right now.

The clothing he left abandoned in the bathtub is dry, but appropriately disgusting. He tosses it all on the floor and gets in the shower to clean the dried vomit out of his hair. He pulls on the least offensive clothes he can find and settles for going out in the freezing wind with his hair soaking wet.

As expected, his appearance is absolutely revolting. His eyes are bloodshot and his skin sickly pale. The telltale signs of a hangover from hell are etched into his features. Mustang will definitely be able to see it. Hell, he’ll probably be able to smell it.

He quickly eats a slice of bread and grabs an apple to eat on the way, as if a small piece of fruit could offset all the poison still inundating his system.

The bar Mustang mentioned is only five blocks away, and the first block is mildly pleasant. It’s freezing, but he eats his apple and focuses on the fact that his legs are still carrying him without much strain. But by the third block his stomach starts to twist. Sweat prickles beneath his clothing. He stands immobile for a few seconds, frozen on the busy sidewalk, trying to keep himself in one piece.

He makes it to the bar after what feels like the longest walk of his life. There’s a bench outside, and he gratefully takes a seat on the cold wood to breathe and recover while debating whether or not to turn back. After all, he really doesn’t want to deal with the aftermath if he faints or throws up mid-conversation.

He really shouldn’t have come. Why on earth did he think this was a good idea?

The bar is unusually crowded given the time of day. There are about ten people milling about, playing pool, listening to the radio. The smell of stale smoke and liquor is worse than he anticipated, and it becomes nearly unbearable as he moves deeper into the thick of it.

Sitting in one of the booths in the back, he catches sight of Mustang, who raises his eyes in greeting and waves him over. The worry in his expression growing more transparent the closer Ed gets.

“Hey,” he says, collapsing down in the seat across from him.

“Hey. I’m glad you came.”

“I didn’t have anything better to do.” He slouches back against the wood.

“What have you been up to the past couple of days?”

“Nothing important. You?”

“Hostage negotiations.”  
  
“Yikes.”  
  
“It was nothing too serious. Just some hunters who accidentally crossed the northern border without realizing it. They were detained on suspicion of being spies, but it’s all sorted now. I just got word from Falman that they safely arrived from Drachma this morning.”

“That sounds like something way outside of your jurisdiction.”

He smiles softly. “Maybe I just like being a good Samaritan.”

 _And attracting potential voters,_ he almost says.

“And you’re having a drink to celebrate?” He gestures towards an empty porcelain cup sitting in front of him.

“It was amaretto coffee minus the amaretto. I figured all the cafés would be packed around this time, but I guess Amestris’s unemployment rate is a bit higher than I thought.”

He discreetly glances around at the other patrons. None of them seem to be paying them any attention, but they’re still well within earshot.

“Maybe they had the same idea as us,” he remarks.

“Maybe. There’s a patio in the back. Do you mind the cold?”

He shakes his head and eagerly follows Mustang down a short hallway to the backdoor. It’s miraculous that he managed to survive more than a minute deprived of fresh air.

The back patio is surrounded by a tall wooden fence. There are a handful of metal tables strewn about with chairs stacked on top, stored away for the winter. Mustang takes one down for himself and does the same for Ed, clearly sensing that he’s too fatigued to handle any degree of physical strain.

They settle into their chairs, and the awkward silence starts to permeate. It’s hard for him to think of anything to say. Especially when his hair is starting to turn to ice and the cold metal of the chair is seeping into his legs.

“I had an appointment with my therapist yesterday,” Mustang starts. “I don’t know what he suspects, but he definitely knows there’s something I’m not telling him.”

“You have a therapist?”  
  
“Ed, I’m pretty sure you were one of the only people in the military who _didn’t_ have a therapist.”

“I wouldn’t have gone even if you forced me to.”

“That’s what I always figured. I didn’t start going until I was desperate enough for sleeping pills. And before you ask, I’m pretty sure you were also one of the only people in the military who didn’t have a prescription.”

“Well, I was guzzling morphine to deal with my automail. Any extra medication probably would have killed me.”

“There are a lot of things that should have killed you.”

“Same goes for you.”

“Yeah.”

He could tell Roy about how fast-tracking his automail recovery forced him to consume doses of morphine so high that Pinako had to cut him off due to fear of organ failure. He could tell him how he suffered from withdrawal symptoms for weeks after switching to a lighter dose. He could tell him how he desperately tried to hide the symptoms from his brother; ashamed and scared that his body was acting so illogically human.

He could tell Mustang those things, but what good would it do?

“I’ve been thinking a lot about the other night,” Roy continues. “In fact, I’ve had a hard time thinking about anything else.”

“You and me both. I really am sorry by the way. It was fucked up of me to bring all of that into your home.”

“My concept of home isn’t that sacred.”

“Still, it’s your space. And I just… barged in and made everything weird.”

“No apology necessary. Honestly, I’ve been stressed for weeks about this tentative peace treaty we’ve been negotiating with Aerugo. Our drama is a very minor source of stress by comparison.”

“Yeah, at least this only affects two people.”

“Even though it feels all-encompassing.”

“Yeah.”

The conversation hits a wall again. It’s surprising how unfazed he feels by the awkward silence. After all, it’s not like he has anything left to lose in this relationship.

“I was planning to write you a letter, but I guess talking about it in person is better.”

“Are you going to make me cry in public?” he asks, suddenly afraid that fragments of emotion will start to claw their way to the surface.

“No promises.”

He seems to take a moment to collect his thoughts. Whatever tough love shit he originally planned on preaching probably went out the window when Ed walked in looking like an addict.

“Ed, I wanted to tell you that you’re a very remarkable person. And you shouldn’t be anxious to settle at nineteen because you’re afraid there won’t be anyone else. I know you’ve had some awful experiences. And it can be frustrating when the attraction you felt as a child feels more meaningful than what you experience as an adult.”

Ed thought that every last ounce of sentiment had been wrung out of him, but this is just cruel.

Mustang sighs. “I’m sorry for calling you a child the other night. Given what you’ve been through, it was inconsiderate of me to call you that.”

That catches him by surprise. The last thing he expected for his behavior was an apology.

“There are much worse things you could have called me.”

“Still, I knew it would hurt you, and that’s why I said it.”

“Were you being honest?”

“It’s complicated,” he says, averting his eyes. “I don’t see you as a child, but I can’t see you as an adult yet.”

“So, a teenager,” he replies irreverently.

“No,” – he shakes his head – “I don’t see you as that either. I see you as a young person, who seems lost, uncertain, a bit scared. I get the sense that you’re still in the early stages of figuring out who you want to be.”

“Yeah,” he admits, “but that’s everyone all the time.”

“That’s true. But it’s different. I’m not going to tell you that these are the best years of your life because they probably won’t be, but there’s a magic in being your age that you lose so quickly. It’s a time in your life when you’re allowed to be completely self-centered. You don’t have to worry about the needs of others, or the broader state of the world. You can be completely selfish with your time and emotions. You’ll lose that if you rush into a relationship with someone like me.”

He shouldn’t have come here. How can Mustang lecture him about the joy of irresponsibility when he’s clearing crumbling to pieces under the strain of it?

“I don’t know about you, but I’m getting bored of being stuck inside my own head all the time. I think I was happier when I had no time to care about myself at all.”

“Your coping mechanisms back then weren’t exactly healthy.”

“At least they kept me functional.”

“Do you feel dysfunctional now?”

That question causes the dam to break. The tears in his eyes overflow before he has any chance to resist.

“I’ve felt better,” he chokes out, wiping at his eyes. “I’ve cried a lot more in the last two months than the past two years.”

“Have you called your family yet?” Roy asks gently.

“No, not yet. I will after this. But I can’t leave for Risembool until Monday anyway. The train doesn’t run on weekends.”

“Do you want to stay at my place? I can’t say that my house is exactly welcoming, but it might be a bit more pleasant than a hotel. Or would that be too hard?”

The offer seems like a fever dream. Why on earth would Mustang willingly invite him back into his home after everything he put him through? Then it occurs to him, the offer isn’t out of affection, it’s out of charity. Roy hasn’t pried into his activities over the past couple days, but he must have a pretty accurate mental picture.

He’s probably inviting him over so that he can keep an eye on him. Because he doesn’t trust him to spend another three nights alone. Granted, he just drank an entire bottle of bourbon in two days. If their roles were reversed, he’d probably extend Roy the same courtesy.

“I’m not going to bother you? Or ruin your plans?”

“My plans consist of staying home and waiting for the phone to ring with some inevitable emergency.”

This is a dangerous offer. The proximity can only make things worse. But if he returns to his hotel, there’s no guarantee he’ll even have the willpower to leave on Monday.

“Okay, sure. Sounds fun. I’ll buy dinner at least one night.”

Roy smiles. “I won’t refuse the offer. Here.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys. “I have to get back to work, but you can check out of your hotel and head over to my place if you want. I should be home around six.”

He takes a single key off the ring and places it in Ed’s palm.

“You’re not afraid I’m going to rob you blind and skip town?”

“You’ve seen my place, right? I’m pretty sure you could pawn off everything I own and you’d only have enough to cover the cost of the truck you’d have to rent to haul away the furniture.”

He turns the key between his fingers a few times. It’s starting to grow moist from the sweat on his hands.

“How can you forgive me so quickly?” he asks weakly.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Yes, I fucking did.”

“No, you didn’t. These things happen all the time. It’s nobody’s fault.”

The sweating is growing worse. It’s dripping down his back and building at the base of his neck. Fresh doses of anxiety are saturating his bloodstream. His brain is producing stress hormones faster than his blood can process. There’s no way in hell he can hide this from Mustang for much longer.

“I genuinely did miss you these past couple years. I was smiling for the rest of the day after you called me from West City. And I don’t want you to drop out of my life again because of this.”

Suddenly, his blood pressure plummets.

“I’m going to pass out now,” he states calmly before everything goes black.

 

“Ed, can you hear me?”

He blinks a few times as the fog in front of his eyes begins to clear. The surface below him feels like a block of ice. One arm is across his chest, the other strung out at an odd angle.

Mustang is leaning over him, calling his name. One hand is cupping his head, protecting it from the freezing ground. It takes him a moment to remember what happened. Where is he? Why is he outside?

Once he remembers, there’s embarrassment, but also a sense of quiet relief. He doesn’t have to pretend to be okay anymore. Everything feels so peaceful down here. The chemicals in his brain are starting to filter out, leaving him in a state of placidity, his head softly cradled in Roy’s palm.

“Are you awake?”

He places a hand on his forehead; searching for a fever that isn’t there.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” His voice feels lilted and off.

“Just lie here for a bit. Do you want me to get help?” His hand is still pressed against his forehead, as if to prevent him from sitting up.

“No, I’m fine. I’m hungover, this happens.”

“I have my car with me. I can drive you over to my place now.”

“My stuff’s at the hotel.”

“I can come back and get it for you.”

The fear reenergizes him. Roy will see the mess in his room. The empty bottle, the traces of vomit, his laundry lying on the floor.

“No, I’ll get it. You wait in the car.”

“Ed, I’m not letting you go up to your room by yourself.”

“Then wait outside, I just don’t want you in my room.”

“Okay,” he sighs after a moment of hesitation. “You really scared me, you know.”

“Haven’t you seen someone faint before?”

“I have, and it’s scary every time. You have some color coming back. Just keep your head low a little longer.”

The hand on his forehead leaves, but the one cradling his head stays in place. He breathes into it, memorizing the shape of his fingers. Maybe it is just the chemicals, but this is truly the calmest he’s felt in ages. Maybe since he was a child.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out way longer than intended, and admittedly not much happens apart from a massive Lore Dump. This and the next two were originally supposed to be one giant chapter, but I decided to break it up into three parts.  
> Hope you enjoy it anyway!

They stop by the hotel, and as promised, Roy waits by the elevator while he collects his things. He stuffs his musky clothes into his suitcase and leaves a generous tip for housekeeping. Then he locks the door and heads back down the hall to where Roy is waiting for him.

“That was fast,” he remarks.

“I didn’t have much.”

Roy hasn’t asked any questions regarding what he was so adamant about hiding, but his imagination is probably running wild.

The ride back to his house takes almost as long as walking. An endless labyrinth of stop signs and traffic lights with what feels like only several centimeters of road in between. Once they arrive, Roy shepherds him towards the phone in the living room, and he reluctantly dials the number for Risembool.

“Hello, Rockbell Mechanical Limb Outfitters.”

“Hey Win, it’s me.”

“Well, it’s about time!” Her voice is loud, but surprisingly restrained. He was expecting to lose a couple pitch frequencies before getting through a greeting.

“Your old boss said you got back from Creta on Monday. Do you have any excuse at all for not giving us a heads up?”

“No, sorry, I just knew that if I called, you’d want to see me right away, and I had some stuff I wanted to do in Central before heading back.”

“Do you really think we’re that overbearing? If you wanted to hang out in Central for a while we wouldn’t have guilted you into coming home.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.” He really had no malicious intent in not calling. Poor communication was just one of the many faults in his character.

“It’s fine. But why’d you come back so soon anyway? And why didn’t you write us any letters?”

“There really wasn’t much to write about,” he laughs weakly. “I’ll tell you guys all about it when I get back. I’m going to take the train out on Monday, so I should be home Tuesday afternoon.”

Home. There’s that sentiment again.

“Okay. How’s the leg holding up?”

Painful memories resurface in a flash. The stranger’s bed, his mouth around the scar tissue, his hand rubbing at the juncture as if searching for a way to detach it.

“No issues so far.”

“Good. Do you need any adjustments?”

“None that I can think of.”

Except now he realizes that he may have to add his own damn leg to his ever-growing list of potential triggers. At this rate, he’ll probably die from suffocation as a result of developing an irrational fear of oxygen.

“Glad to hear it. Okay, I guess I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

“Take care.”

He hangs up the receiver. All in all, that went way better than he anticipated.

“Hey.” He turns around to see Roy leaning against the archway. “I have to head back to work, but if you need anything, here’s my office number and the code phrase to get through the switchboard.”

He hands him a slip of paper with a hastily scrawled number and a couple of sentences.

 

_733-970 We have a lot of rain in August. The lake is far away from the crater. Buy a diamond at the base._

 

“What, you’re too good for code words now?”

“It’s this new system we’re working on. Code words are for military emergencies while code phrases are for personal matters. For some reason, military personnel with families were slightly bitter that there was no easy way to reach them from civilian lines.”

“That seems long overdue.”

“Phones were only invented forty years ago. We’re still working out the kinks.” He turns his gaze towards the kitchen. “I made you a sandwich, and there’s aspirin in the medicine cabinet upstairs. I should be home around six.”

“Thanks,” he replies genuinely.

“No problem. I’ll see you tonight.” He smiles and walks back towards the entryway. “Try to drink some water too!” he calls just before shutting the door behind him.

With that, Ed is completely alone again.

It’s hard to believe that he paced down this exact same hallway less than three days ago. His time spent in the hotel feels impossibly condensed, but glancing around the foyer, his confession to Roy seems like a lifetime ago.

The sandwich Roy made him is just simple turkey and cheese with tomato, but it tastes far better than anything else he’s eaten recently. After washing the plate and obediently drinking a tall glass of water, he picks up his bag and carries it up to the guest room.

The aspirin is located front and center in the medicine cabinet. He tries his best to avoid looking at the other medications lining the shelves, but his eye still catches a few involuntarily.

When the hell did he get so respectful of personal boundaries? Roy wouldn’t have given him permission to look in here if he truly wanted to keep his medications private. Or maybe he trusted Ed not to snoop around, but that option seems less likely.

He pops two tablets into his mouth and uses his hands to cup water from the faucet to swallow them down.

Resting on the edge of the counter, he notices a thin, black comb. The thirteen-year-old soul still living inside of him jolts with a spark of veneration. Gingerly, he picks it up and runs his finger across the teeth. A few stray hairs fall out, and he swiftly catches them in his palm. He examines them closely against the pale backdrop of his skin. Eight strands of fine, black hair.

There’s something sacred about holding the hair of another person. Small snippets of their DNA, a mixture of proteins and cells that their body produced and discarded. Sentimental attachment to hair wasn’t out of the ordinary. After his mom died, he and Al discovered a small box in her room where she kept clippings of their hair along with their baby teeth. At least the ones they lost before she died.

He carefully carries the hairs with him to the guest room and searches through his belongings for something to hold them. He takes out the defunct train schedule, neatly folds it into a makeshift envelope, and safely deposits the hairs inside. The keratin will decay within his lifetime, but maybe it will tide him over until he’s able to replace it with the hair of someone else.

With nothing else to do, he drops down onto the bed. The same bed where he cried his eyes out just three nights ago. The same twin size mattress that the rental company probably intended for the use of a child. As his eyes drift shut, it occurs to him that he may be lying in the bed that Mustang’s children may one day sleep in.

He feels surprisingly unperturbed at the notion.

There’s probably a painful reckoning in store for him regarding that complex.

 

The distant sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen wakes him up. Disorienting darkness greets him once he opens his eyes. He can’t remember falling asleep, but the sun has long since set.

He pushes himself out of bed and makes his way downstairs, rubbing away the drool on his chin and the crust around his eyes. The smell of onions and ginger is wafting up the staircase. It grows stronger as he walks towards the kitchen, where Roy is standing over the counter chopping carrots.

“Hey, are you feeling better?” he asks.

“Yeah, much. What’re you making?” He takes a hair tie off his wrist to pull his hair up into a sloppy ponytail.

“Chicken ginger soup. It’s something I always crave when I’m hungover, but naturally I’m always too lazy to make it.”

“You really didn’t have to cook for me.”

“Relax, there are only like six ingredients. Besides, it’s one of only three-and-a-half things that I actually _know_ how to cook.”

“In that case, I’ll try to keep the sarcasm in my compliments to a minimum. Is there anything I can help with?”

“No, I think all the hard stuff is done,” he says while sliding the sliced carrots into the broth. “We just have to wait about half-an-hour now.” He lifts a large lid off the counter to cover the pot. “Can I get you some water?”

“Sure,” he replies.

Roy plucks a glass from the dish rack and starts to fill it up.

“By the way, you mentioned the other night that you were interested in moving to Central. Is that still true?” He hands him the glass.

“There’s nowhere else I need to be,” he shrugs, taking a sip.

“And school? Any recent thoughts on that?”

“To be honest, I really haven’t been doing a lot of critical thinking since Tuesday.”

“Fair enough. I’m asking because yesterday I ran into the dean of the natural sciences college at Central University. I know the guy pretty well since we’re both judges on the panel for selecting new state alchemists. And I asked him what kind of hoops you would need to jump through if you were to consider going there.”

Ed’s honestly impressed with Roy’s ability to strike up casual conversation as if they were already years beyond this emotional hurricane. It’s admirable that he’s making an effort to salvage this dumpster fire of a situation. Especially when Ed’s the one who started all of this.

Still, the topic seems like a distraction technique. A strategy to force him into productivity; setting goals he’s too lazy to set for himself. To be fair, he ranted to Roy ad nauseam the other night about how directionless his life felt. How his time in Creta basically sapped all of his creative energy. Roy probably suspects that if he returns to Risembool without any future plans, then he might never leave.

“You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I know, but I wanted to. Don’t worry, I’m not bribing the provost or anything. I just wanted to get some basic information. And the dean was absolutely ecstatic when I dropped your name.”

“Wow, people still remember me. Who would have thought?” He walks over to the table and takes a seat.

“Two years really isn’t enough time to forget about you. But anyway, he said that you’re obviously not allowed to pursue an advanced degree without completing a bachelor’s first, but in your case, he said they’d be willing to pull some strings. He knows that you’re not going to sign on if they force you to take first-year biology.”

Roy takes the chair across from him. Now their arrangement is giving him severe déjà vu.

“So, he said that instead of doing undergraduate coursework, you can fill those credit hours with lab assistantships and independent research projects. You should be able to finish all the hours you need for a bachelor’s in two years, less if you work during the summers. Then you can go straight into the PhD program.”

“What about money?” he asks bluntly.

“Typically, it’s rude to ask about such things, but I did anyway.”

“Ever the foster child.” He smiles.

“Through and through. He said that they would give you a full tuition scholarship and a modest stipend. They’re legally not allowed to give you more than one million cenz per month, but you could work on the side too.”

“What’ll one million get me apartment-wise?”

“Assuming you choose the cheapest option, it’ll be about seventy-five percent of your rent.”

“Well, fuck that.”

It was poor planning on his part to lose sight of the fact that Central is by a wide margin the most expensive city in the country.

“Ed, people will pay you five million for routine consultations. Ten million for public speaking gigs.”

“I don’t want to do any of that shit. I want to live in complete anonymity. I want to shut myself up in a lab and only communicate with people through a cup with a string in it.”

Roy laughs. “You’re virtually unrecognizable from when you first enlisted.”

“Well, when you’re a kid, you’re taught that you need to be famous to be happy. Because if people don’t remember you after you die, then did you ever really live? Fuck that. I’ll be dead, I won’t care.”

When he was younger, there was this game he liked to play inside his head. It was called, ‘How Many People in the Country Know My Name?’ It was incredibly unhealthy, difficult to quit, and impossible to win. It consisted of a mental chart that only had two columns: ‘They Know Me’ or ‘They Don’t Know Me Yet.’ The goal of the game was to get every person in the country, and ideally the world, firmly placed within the first column.

He stopped playing the game around the time he turned sixteen. There was no significant event or inspirational speech that changed his outlook. He simply realized one day that fame didn’t make him happy. It was one of the most painless epiphanies of his life.

“That’s a surprisingly mature outlook,” Roy remarks.

“Yeah, well, adulthood is full of surprises.”

“That it is. But I’m sure you can find some employment suited to your tastes. And you don’t strike me as someone who needs a great deal of luxury to be happy.”

“How much does this place cost?” he asks, waving his hand towards the ceiling.

“About five million per month. Although, I get discounted housing through the military, so it’s closer to three million.”

He finishes the last of his water and slams the empty glass onto the table.

“You know,” he huffs, “if I’d known that being a state alchemist was the most luxurious fucking job in the country, I might have thought twice about packing it in.”

“I think you’ll find that in a lot of ways, being a state alchemist is the exception and not the rule.”

“Yeah, that reminds me. Mustang,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “how in the ever-loving fuck was I legally allowed to become a state alchemist at twelve?”

The question has been bugging him for months now. It came to him in a flash last spring. He was walking home from the village market when he passed by the white paneled schoolhouse where he and his brother spent long days reading books hidden beneath their desks.

The bell had just rung, and the children were starting to filter out. They swarmed into the road enthusiastically; talking with their friends, exchanging trinkets, running as fast as they could to go play in the stream. A little ocean of blonde, brown, and red hair.

That’s when it hit him.

_That’s what I looked like when I joined the military._

It felt like he was staring into a time capsule. A dozen little bodies walking past him, puffy cheeks and baby curls, squeaky voices that rose impossibly high when they got too excited. To make matters worse, many of them were taller than he was at that age.

He never asked about the technicalities of his employment as a kid. Simply assuming that his talent and intellect cancelled out any and all concern for his age. The legal implications never bothered him, just like he never worried about the mortality of his body.

Roy just laughs at the question. “They actually changed the law, so you can’t anymore.”

“Did I really fuck up that badly?”

“No, they changed the law before you even had the chance to fuck up. Well, technically they amended it. You know about the Minors in the Military Act, right?”

The name sounded vaguely familiar. In the same way where he would read about proposed bills in the paper, but forget their content immediately because they didn’t apply to his circumstances.

“Refresh my memory.”

“Okay, well, you know how in order to join the military you have to graduate from secondary school or pass the equivalent certificate exam, right?”

“Yeah.”

He was forced to take that exam before he received his state certification. He spent three hours on a Saturday afternoon sitting alone in a college auditorium answering mundane multiple choice questions on algebra and grammar; growing increasingly bitter that he wasted so many years in school when there was this perfectly acceptable alternative.

“Well,” Roy continues, “the Minors in the Military Act was drafted about twenty years ago, and it was created so that people who graduate from secondary school at sixteen and seventeen can join the military right away and receive all the rights you would normally acquire at eighteen. However, they never put any official age restrictions in the fine print. They didn’t think they needed to since they didn’t anticipate anyone graduating any younger than that, and you have to be of a certain weight and height to enter basic training anyway.”

“What’re the requirements?” he asks. For some reason, it never occurred to him that they existed. Probably because there were precious few applicants who fell short of them.

“As a man, you have to be at least 155 centimeters tall and weigh 45 kilos.”

“Shit.”

Adjusting for his automail, he weighed less than 35 kilos when he received his first assignment.

“Yeah, you would have been hopeless. And that’s not to mention the strength and speed tests. Don’t get me wrong, you were strong and fast for your size, but you would have gotten culled the first day of basic.”

“I had alchemy. Who cares if I couldn’t run a three-minute kilometer?”

“That’s the philosophy the creators of the state alchemist rank adopted too. That’s why it's one of the only military positions that doesn’t have a mandatory physical fitness component.”

While talking, Roy moves toward the stove to lift the lid on the pot and stir the soup.

“There are also no age restrictions on taking the secondary school certificate exam, and you passed it easily. Ergo, it was legal for you to join the military.”

“That’s one glaring loophole.”

“Yes, it is. They amended the law literally a month after you joined. Now you have to be at least sixteen to even be considered for the position. Although, we have yet to receive any applicants younger than twenty.”

Roy opens the refrigerator. For a second, it looks like he’s about to grab one of several beer bottles lining the shelf, but seems to catch himself mid-movement and closes the fridge empty handed. Ed recoils with the same guilt he felt the other night when he forced Roy to prematurely extinguish his cigarette.

“They also put a number of additional amendments in the law that exclusively applied to you. They anticipated that you were going to be something of a loose cannon, so they added some clauses to curtail your legal rights. For example, at twelve you could legally rent or buy property, make a will, and get a tattoo. However, you were not allowed to buy alcohol, drive a car, get married, adopt a child, and a couple other things.” He counts the conditions off on his fingers.

“They amended an entire law just to keep me from doing dumb shit?”

“Specifically, dumb shit that could negatively impact other people.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this back then?”

Mustang gave him a vague rundown of his rights when he first enlisted, but really only emphasized that he couldn’t do any of the quote unquote “fun stuff” that people usually look forward to when they turn eighteen. Knowledge of the law probably wouldn’t have changed his behavior, especially since there was little he couldn’t accomplish by simply flashing his pocketwatch. But still, it hurt a bit that Mustang felt it was necessary to keep it a secret from him.

“Because I didn’t want you buying up property and getting tattoos! Besides, the law’s public policy, you could have looked it up if you wanted to.”

“God, I could have been having the time of my life.”

“All those tattoos you could have gotten?” Roy laughs.

“All those wills I could have written.”

“Well, lucky for you, you have all your rights now, and you can do whatever you want.”

Ed thinks about that concept for a moment.

“Never mind, I hate it.”

 

The soup is ready not long after that, and the compliments he gives Roy turn out to be genuine. The broth is savory and aromatic, the warmth settling into his core.

Mentally, he feels shockingly cogent despite his recent depressive breakdown. As if fainting hit a reset button somewhere in his brain. The conversation feels more comfortable than it did the other night in the restaurant, before he turned their casual get together into a five alarm fire.

The urge to carefully calculate his words, the paranoia of saying that wrong thing, the pressure of being liked, all those worries seem to be retreating. It’s intoxicating, even if it is only temporary.

Roy tells him more about his work, even gossiping and talking a fair amount of shit about his colleagues; divulging sensitive information that he was too cautious to speak about publicly in the restaurant.

“Sorry for complaining so much,” he apologizes. “It’s just that you’re one of my only friends who isn’t in the military.”

Is that what he is? Does Roy actually want to be his friend? Not just out of charity or paternal instinct, but a genuine interest in his company?

They haven’t spoken at all about the other night. Maybe they never will. Maybe that’s a memory they’ll leave drifting in the void; perpetually hanging in the air between them, but never invoked.

Perhaps twenty years from now, one of them will bring it up in the context of a joke. They can both have a good laugh, and that’ll set the matter free.

And maybe he can be okay with that. Roy can forever exist in his mind as this perfect, unobtainable object. A symbolic representation of his affection, without any of the baggage and heartache that would accompany a true relationship. The mental image he’s crafted can remain intact, and he’ll never have to confront the obvious reality that the Roy Mustang who exists in his head is far different from the one that exists in reality.

Maybe he’ll be happier in the long-term if he can learn to leave that part of himself in the past.

“Hey, can I borrow a book?” he asks once his soup is finished.

“What kind of book?”

“Any kind. I had absolutely nothing to read in Creta, so at this point you could give me the instructions for a forklift and I’d devour them.”

“I think I may have a few things more engaging than that. Do you want to see my library?” he asks, finishing the last spoonful of his own soup.

“Sure, I’d love that.”

His library is located upstairs between the two bedrooms. It’s clearly the space where he spends the majority of his time. The desk is hidden beneath layers of papers and stacks of folders. There’s a worn out sofa pushed up against the wall with some pillows and an old quilt thrown on top, and there are empty mugs perched precariously on every available surface.

There must be at least a thousand books in here. The walls are lined with unpainted shelves that are starting to bow at the center due to the weight. The books are all haphazardly smushed together, some lying horizontally on top of the packed rows. Many appear to be secondhand or former library copies. The topics ranging from contemporary novels, to medical textbooks, atlases, political theory, foreign language dictionaries, and a suspicious lack of alchemical books.

“They’re in no particular order,” Roy interjects. “They’re organized roughly based on size and how I unpacked them.”

Roy retreats to his desk to shuffle through some papers, and Ed takes his time scanning the shelves.

Crushed between two hardcovers, he sees the dilapidated spine of a pitiful paperback. The paper on the spine is so worn that the title is indecipherable. He pulls it out and looks at the cover, which bears a rather dramatic illustration of a man in a military uniform shrouded in the shadow of prison bars.

“Wow, that book is old,” Roy remarks. “I think I was twelve or thirteen when I first read it. I’m amazed it’s still in one piece.”

Sure enough, the poor cover seems to be hanging on by a thread.

“Is it any good?” he asks, flipping it over to scan the description on the back.

“Admittedly, it’s been a very long time since I’ve read it, but I loved it when I was younger. I suspect that if I read it again, my opinion will be slightly less favorable.”

“Has life turned you into a literary snob?” He moves to sit down on the couch.

“I suppose. In that annoying way where if you read a lot, you inevitably come to the realization that some books are objectively better than others.”

“Well, I’ve probably read less than ten fiction books in my entire life, so my standards are pretty low.”

“Not even when you were little?”

He remembers a large book of fairytales that his mom used to read to him. The book had over a hundred stories in it, but he and Al were only interested in hearing the same nine over and over again. They would bring her flowers that she pressed between the pages. They were probably still there when the book burned.

“I don’t think it counts if someone is reading them to you. By the way, where’re all your books on alchemy?”

“I actually don’t have very many.”

“Seriously? Why?”

“Because they’re all printed in extremely limited editions, which jacks up their price. And unlike some people, I’m still a certified state alchemist. So why would I spend millions of cenz on books that I can get from the library for free?”

“What about when you need to do super secretive illegal research?”

“I have to admit, I haven’t been doing much of that lately. Politically questionable schemes, sure, but it’s been a long time since I’ve dabbled in the forbidden arts.”

“Did you spend all your time at the library when you were studying for the State Alchemist Exam?”

“No. My old teacher had a really impressive library, but he died horribly in debt, so we had to auction off everything, otherwise his family would have gotten no inheritance. I did keep one book though. It’s incredibly old, but its commercial value is negligible since no one has any interest in early alchemy.”

From one of the drawers in his desk, he pulls out a large, grey box that has a bit of heft to it. He places it down in the center of the carpet, then removes the lid to reveal a large leather tome. The covers are blind tooled with elaborate floral ornamentations, but segments of the leather and wood beneath have been devoured by bugs and vermin. The leather around the hinge is starting to crumble, and the metal clasps on the fore edge are coated in green rust.

He carefully removes the book from its enclosure and opens it down the middle to reveal an elaborate anatomical etching. The delicate lines depict a naked man encased within layers of multifaceted spheres; each one bearing an assortment of symbols and labels written in incredibly old Amestrian. Located above the man’s head is the Xerxian word for God.

“What exactly am I looking at here?” Ed asks.

“Well, I’m no expert in early Amestrian alchemy, but I believe this image is related to the concept of man serving as a microcosm for God. Philosophers used to believe that since God created man in his own image, all the answers we seek about God could be discovered through analyzing our own minds and bodies. Often via dissection, but also astrology.”

Ed knows a little bit about early Amestrian alchemy. Primarily that it was almost complete bullshit. This book must be nearly as old as the printing press, as it was clearly published before Father introduced alchemy to the west.

At the time, Amestris was a very small country. The culture could be called backwater when compared to some of its neighbors. Only a fraction of the inhabitants were literate, and there was only one university to serve the entire population.

Alchemy as a concept only existed as an exotic eastern mystery. Scholars tried to piece together what they could from the few Xerxian manuscripts and migrants that made it that far west, but the language barrier was steep and the culture gaps were more like chasms.

An entire school of thought developed around deciphering the secrets of alchemy. Scholars fervently analyzed the few texts they managed to get a hold of; putting each letter under a microscope, convinced that all the secrets of the universe were hidden between the lines.

As far as he knows, no one in Amestris ever physically practiced alchemy until after the fall of Xerxes.

“How can this book have no market value?” he asks, dismissive of the content, but truly amazed by the intricacy of the engravings.

“Because the man who wrote it believed that the sun revolved around the earth. And that maintaining a healthy diet required consuming large quantities of mercury.”

He delicately turns a few more pages; revealing increasingly elaborate etchings of cadavers, heavenly bodies, parallel universes comprised of light and darkness.

“We like to forget that this era of scientific discovery existed,” Roy continues. “After all, the public school curriculum still dictates that alchemy was an Amestrian invention.”

That’s what he was taught in school, and he fought against his teacher valiantly. Although the legend of the prophet with golden eyes is universally dismissed as a myth, any alchemical scholar worth his degree will tell you that alchemy was practiced in Xerxes long before the knowledge reached Amestris. How else can you explain the fact that the oldest surviving alchemical texts are written in their language?

Roy flips through a few more pages. Ed watches closely, enraptured by the artistic accomplishment in each image. Then his eye catches something familiar.

“Wait, stop, don’t turn the page.” He reaches a hand out to prevent Roy from moving.

“What is it?”

Consuming the entire page is an image he’s seen many times before in both his dreams and nightmares. A long trunk with orbs jutting out from the stem. Dark feathers shooting out of the base. A mixture of ancient Amestrian and Xerxian inscriptions encased within each of the circles.

There’s no mistaking it. This was his gate.

“What’s this image?” he asks, pointing unnecessarily.

Roy stares down at the etching in contemplation.

“Well, I’m going to reiterate my previous statement that I’m not an expert, but I believe this is a Xerxian religious symbol with Amestrian translations thrown in. It demonstrates how creation is divided into four distinct worlds: emanation, creation, action, and… fuck I forgot the last one. I made an acronym at some point. But the basic idea is that emanation is the closest world to God, and action is the closest to man.”

“These segments,” he points to the feathers around the base of the tree, “they represent the ten emanations of God. The Amestrian is old, but I know this word is wisdom, this is kindness, understanding, et cetera.” His finger darts around the arch as he reads each inscription.

“And they also correspond to different parts of the body. Relating back to the theme of man being a microcosm for God.”

Ed inspects the complete engraving one last time. Verifying that it is without a doubt the image that dissolved beneath his fingers.

“This is my Portal of Truth. This is the exact symbol that was on my gate.”

Roy’s eyes quickly dart between the book in front of him and Ed’s dazed expression.

“Well, that escalated quickly.”

“What was on your gate?” he blurts out impulsively, and immediately regrets it when he realizes that the question will likely invoke unpleasant memories.

“As far as I can remember, it was like a distorted version of the unified matrix for flame alchemy. It was nothing I hadn’t seen before.”

That’s a relief, but also incredibly unhelpful.

“This is fucking crazy,” he laughs. “I’ve been looking for this symbol fucking everywhere.”

“You were probably looking in the wrong places since it isn’t even related to alchemy. It’s purely theological. You couldn’t make a practical array out of it. It’s just meant to showcase the hierarchy of the universe. Basically, demonstrating that God is so impossibly far above us that we’ll never get close to true understanding.”

“That’s fucking ironic, considering.”

Even after everything, he’s still too stubborn to privilege Truth with the title of God. At least not out loud. The bastard knows what’s inside his head anyways.

“Maybe he gave you this symbol just to mess with you.”

“I think that’s a logical hypothesis,” he mutters. “Does this print have a description or anything?” He scans the margins for any additional notes.

“Not really. This book is mainly just artwork. I know there are a couple books in the library archives that have more information.”

“They’ll be closed tomorrow,” he complains. The library archives were always closed on weekends.

“You’re right,” Roy replies sympathetically.

He sighs and returns his focus to the symbol. He watched it disintegrate beneath his palms. All the knowledge of the universe vanishing under his fingers. It’s truly disgusting that the nightmares about losing his alchemy outnumber the good dreams about saving his brother’s life.

He probably could have found some answers regarding the origin of his portal in his father’s books. The ones he burned without remorse.

When he and Al riffled through their father’s study, they found an entire box full of manuscripts and journals written in the Xerxian language. They all appeared to be modern though; clearly written in their father’s hand. They didn’t think much of it. There were lots of alchemists who studied Xerxian for historical reasons, so they assumed that their father’s writings were just practice notes or copies of other extant manuscripts.

In hindsight, they were almost certainly the only surviving documents written by a living native speaker. They probably contained invaluable information about Xerxian society and history. Information that any alchemical scholar would kill for.

It’s ironic, really. Ever since childhood, he’s revered books as holy objects, and yet he personally committed one of the most heinous acts of biblioclasm in the last century. To add insult to injury, it was his own culture that he destroyed. Half of his bloodline that he would never know the slightest thing about.

Learning about Hohenheim’s history somehow made losing his alchemy even more painful. Destroying his gate felt like burning his house down. Now there was nothing left of his heritage apart from his blood and golden eyes.

He stares at the symbol in front of him for a while longer. Then lets out a weak laugh.

“It figures I’d find more interesting information in your house than the entire country of Creta.”

Roy offers a small chuckle in return.

“Now you have to stay in Amestris until you can figure this out.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's interested, the symbol in FMA is Robert Fludd's Sephirothic Tree. Fludd had some pretty wild theories, but he commissioned some genuinely beautiful artwork. If anyone's interested, the book 'Robert Fludd: Hermetic Philosopher and Surveyor of Two Worlds' by Joscelyn Godwin has some incredible engravings.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever have that one cracky throw away headcanon you don’t actually believe that somehow becomes deeply relevant to your entire story?

It’s hard to tell whether or not he got any real sleep last night. It was dark when he shut his eyes, and now the sun is out, which means he must have slept a little bit, even though it feels like he barely blinked. He remembers repeatedly reaching the brink of unconsciousness, only to be yanked back to the waking world many times over. Long repressed memories taking advantage of his exhaustion to work their way to the surface.

He remembers the heat more than anything. The scorching hot flames blowing against his skin and drying out his eyeballs. There was also the smell. It was like a concoction of everything you burned as a kid just to see what would happen: cloth, leaves, paper, hair, it smelled like all of that and everything else.

He stood there, completely stoic, telegraphing nothing, but all the while painfully aware that Al had no nerve endings to register the heat of the fire consuming their home.

This was just fucking unfair. Yesterday, the universe gave him about seven good hours of respite from his inner demons, then out of nowhere, this bullshit comes along and shrouds him in a fresh layer of crippling regret.

Is this how the rest of his life is going to progress? Long stretches of misery with brief interjections of happiness just to remind him how wonderful things could be? The worst part is, the bad phases are growing longer while the good ones are getting shorter. Soon they’ll disappear entirely, and all he’ll be left with are distorted memories.

The novel he borrowed from Roy is sitting on the bedside table. He meant to start reading it last night, but his motivation plummeted after hitting the mattress. He picks it up and starts reading the first page, desperate for a distraction.

Predictably, the story is set within the military. The plot revolves around a young man who is rising through the ranks, but finds himself framed for the murder of his superior officer. With no acceptable alibi, he’s court martialed and sentenced for life.

The narrative then shifts to the viewpoint of one of his colleagues, a scrappy female sergeant who is trying to discover the identity of the true murderer while secretly communicating with the protagonist while he’s imprisoned.

After an hour, he’s three-quarters of the way through. The sergeant has secured his release from prison by uncovering new evidence, but they still need to catch the real killer.

It’s all very formulaic and kitschy. The author was obviously never involved with the military, as his descriptions of tribunal proceedings are wildly inaccurate. Nevertheless, the narrative is more engrossing than he anticipated. He just managed to read through three whole pages before remembering that everything in life is awful.

The protagonist and his companion are now driving through the countryside in search of a new lead. It’s the dead of night, and they decide to pull off into an empty barn to sleep.

Once the headlights are shut off, they immediately start kissing. The protagonist pulls at her blouse and unfurls her hair. They maneuver into the backseat, and the rest follows as expected.

As far as sex scenes go, it’s very tame. No graphic descriptions or dirty whispers. The whole event is only a few paragraphs long, and the author almost seems embarrassed to be writing it in the first place.

Just as he’s about to turn the page, he notices something strange. The top corner of the page is missing. It looks like it was dogeared so frequently that the paper simply chipped away. What’s more, the spine is broken at the juncture; the pages are spread so wide he can see traces of glue in the gutter.

Images flash into his head of Roy at twelve, repeatedly reading this page until the book naturally opened at this point. It’s kind of adorable. The thought of him getting aroused by erotic content so family friendly you could buy it at a train station kiosk.

He reads the passage again, slower this time. Taking in every word, trying to reconstruct what might have been passing through Roy’s head the first time he read it.

He rolls onto his stomach and presses his pelvis against the mattress. He reads the page again, gently rocking his hips forward until the tingles of arousal start to build between his legs.

It’s been weeks since he last had an orgasm. Unsurprisingly, his last encounter before leaving Creta eviscerated what was left of his sex drive, and the strain and stress of recent events hasn’t helped either. There were small flashes of arousal when he was in Roy’s presence, but the urge to touch himself has been dormant for a long time. It’s actually the longest he’s gone without an orgasm since puberty. It’s no wonder he’s getting turned on by single-page erotica.

Although, the book itself doesn’t seem to be the source of his interest. It’s the idea of Roy reading this same page. Touching himself to the exact same words. Probably huddled in bed beneath the blankets, trying to stifle any noise, just like he is right now.

The irony isn’t lost on him that he’s a grown man fantasizing about Roy as a child. It would take an advanced degree in mental gymnastics to suitably deconstruct that phenomenon. Instead, he refuses to worry about it, and just allows it to happen.

He reaches a hand down into his sweatpants and pushes his hips forward into the touch. He has lubricant in his suitcase, but he doesn’t want to get up and search for it for fear that he’ll lose interest if he breaks concentration.

He reads the passage again and again, thrusting into his dry palm, rubbing and squeezing, feeling his cock grow harder and more sensitive.

He breathes softly into the pillow; wanting to thrust harder, but afraid that the bed will start making sound. Roy probably had the exact same concern twenty years ago. Did he do it this way, or on his back? Did he tease himself, or take care of it quickly for fear of being caught?

An involuntary moan passes his lips. It feels so good. He’d completely forgotten how good it feels. He sets the book down and focuses on the sensation. The tight, sweet ache building with every thrust. The satisfaction in anticipating the release he’ll soon achieve. He rubs his thumb along the tender skin at the head, gathering pre-cum and gliding it in circles around the crown.

It’s building quickly. He can feel the energy trapped in his pelvis, expanding and contracting, but not strong enough to break through the barrier just yet.

He lifts his head from the pillow and turns to grab some tissues from the nightstand, only to find that there aren’t any. He gasps and bites his lip as a particularly strong wave courses through. His hips and hand are moving of their own accord now, searching for friction, only one singular goal in mind.

It’s been years since he last came in his clothes, and he can’t suppress the feeling of shame that slightly dampens his excitement. Something about it just feels so adolescent. It’s supposed to be a remnant of puberty. Something that happens before you gain full control over your body.

Then he imagines Roy as a teenager going through the exact same experience. Dreaming about the things he read in the book and waking up wet between his legs. Rubbing himself against the bed in his sleep, writhing and moaning, his unconscious body searching for something it needs.

Clenching his eyes tight, he angles his hips just right and slowly thrusts a few more times. It rises steadily, and breaks with a resounding swell. He opens his mouth in a silent scream, twisting to the side, his muscles locked in place as he comes so hard it feels like he might black out again. It radiates in his nerve endings, pulsing erratically, leaving his body and taking every ounce of tension with it.

With one deep exhale, it’s over. The endorphins are drifting through his bloodstream; spreading warmth into his fingertips and tingling at the base of his skull.

He pushes himself up and retracts his soaked hand. It’s been so long, he expected there to be a lot, but the amount of cum coating his hand and dripping down his forearm is borderline obscene.

In a blissful daze, he kicks off his sweatpants and wipes it all away, then balls the garment up and walks over to his suitcase. He pulls on a clean pair and stuffs the soiled ones beneath the rest of his laundry.

Once he’s reasonably clean, he collapses back onto the bed and basks in the warm tingles dancing along his spine. Just as he feels himself drifting back to sleep, his stomach gives a loud growl. He smiles into the pillow. If his sex drive and appetite have returned from the war, then things can’t be all that bad.

He climbs out of bed and heads downstairs to find something for breakfast. Roy must still be in his room, as he’s nowhere else in sight. In the kitchen, he helps himself to some toast and coffee, slightly dizzy from the whiplash of darting from depression to euphoria in a matter of minutes. The rush of orgasm may be a short-term solution for a chronic condition, but for the moment he’s thankful for the chemical barrier. At least it’s a more satisfying alternative to alcohol.

He heads back upstairs and discovers that the library door is now open. Discreetly, he glances inside to see Roy scanning through some papers at his desk.

“What're you working on?”

“That’s classified,” he replies stiffly.

“Apparently not classified enough to keep the door shut.”

“Alright, it’s not classified, it’s just really boring. They’re time off requests. We have arctic training drills coming up in a week, and for some mysterious reason, family emergencies always seem to spike around this time.”

“What’s the best excuse so far?” He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe.

“Eh, there’s nothing too creative. Just five thousand vaguely ill mothers and ten million dead grandparents.” He scribbles his signature on the form in front of him with more force than necessary. “How’s the book so far?”

He’s glad Roy isn’t looking up from his work because he blushes straight to his ears.

“It’s alright. It’s keeping me entertained.”

“How far along are you?”

“I’ve got a bit left.”

He abruptly moves out of the doorway and walks back to his room. Once his face feels sufficiently cool, he picks up the tattered novel and heads back to the library. Without asking permission, he settles down onto the couch and pulls the old quilt over his legs and torso.

They fall into a comfortable silence. Roy continues scratching away at the papers in front of him while Ed flips through the last fifty-odd pages.

After their rendezvous in the barn, the characters drive to an abandoned house. Or at least, their lead said it was abandoned. Of course it turns out to be the killer’s base of operations, and the culprit is none other than the protagonist’s trusty coworker, who was jealous of his rising career.

There are some monologues, a shoot out, and finally, the villain’s vindicated death. The final pages clean up all the loose threads, and the two sweethearts drive off into the sunset. He sighs loudly as he shuts the book and carefully places it on the floor. Roy was right. It was by no means spectacular, but finally having the chance to read something in his native language feels like a dose of medicine.

“What did you think?” Roy asks.

“I don’t have much to compare it to, but it was okay.”

“I think I can agree with that assessment. Feel free to pick out something else if you like.”

“Thanks,” he says as Roy turns back to his work.

This feels really nice. All of it. His body is still drifting in a post-coital cloud. His limbs feel light, and his mind is still devoid of intrusive thoughts.

This is probably what Roy was talking about when he said that this is one of the only periods in his life when he can get away with being completely selfish. He has nothing to do and nowhere to be. No expectations or restrictions. His schedule can consist of nothing more than eating, sleeping, reading, and masturbating. It’s a charmed life. Decadent. Basking in time like a cat in the sun.

His eyelids gently start to close and a yawn works its way up his throat. It’s still mid-morning, but the effects of his fitful night are really starting to hit. He rolls over to face the cushions, and pulls the blanket up over his shoulder. Beneath the quilt he rubs his flesh foot against his automail, stroking the metal like a content cricket.

 

“Hey,” Roy says softly, shaking his shoulder. “I’m going to heat up some soup for lunch. Do you want some?”

“Sure,” he responds groggily.

“I’ll just leave it simmering on the stove, so no rush.”

He gives a lazy hum in reply.

After Roy leaves the room, he burrows deeper into his nest. So cozy that not even the incentive of hot food can force him to move. Eventually, the fear of being an ungrateful guest compels him to get up, although he’s tempted to wear the quilt downstairs.

He spots Roy sitting on the living room floor; a bowl of soup in his hands and a newspaper laid out in front of him.

“Hey,” he calls, “bring your soup in here. I’m going to make a fire, then I thought we could play some chess.”

“Okay, sure,” he nods while heading towards the kitchen.

He ladles himself a decent portion then returns to the living room to settle into the couch. Roy is crouched over the fireplace, stacking logs and stuffing pieces of old newspaper into the crevices. Once satisfied, he retrieves a box of matches from the mantel and ignites the thin paper.

Ed furrows his brow in confusion. Roy could have just clapped his hands and ignited the oxygen in the air to set the fire roaring. That’s what he would have done, and he knows next to nothing about flame alchemy.

“Do you ever use clap alchemy?” he asks after Roy discards the burnt match in with the rest of the kindling.

“Not really. At least not for mundane things like you did.”

“Why not?”

He pauses for a moment, shifting a piece of wood around to expose it to the flame.

“I just always seem to forget about it. One time I locked myself out and it took a good five minutes before I remembered that I could just transmute the lock open. Unfortunately, I screwed myself over. I had to get it replaced anyway since I had no idea how to reconstruct the original configuration.”

Ed never really thought about that. Whenever he transmuted locks, returning them to their original state was never a top priority.

Roy fiddles with the fire a bit more before drawing the metal screen. Then he dusts off his hands and beckons Ed to come onto the floor where a wooden chess box is sitting.

He unlatches the side and pours the pieces onto the carpet, then goes about arranging them neatly on the board.

Ed turns his gaze toward the fire; testing himself, seeing if the flames will trigger another mood swing. Fortunately, the barricades seem to be holding steady, which is a relief. Hopefully he won’t have to add open flames to his list of irrational phobias anytime soon. After all, if Roy can cope with close proximity to fire, then he should be more than capable.

“I miss my alchemy all the time,” he says, mainly as a distraction from his own thoughts. “I think about it every day.”

Roy finishes lining up the last of the pieces.

“It must have been traumatic. Losing something so integral to your identity.”

“I think traumatic is a strong word.”

“Is it?”

He can’t talk about that right now. Not without destroying this small pocket of peace they’ve managed to cultivate.

“Just start the game, Mustang.”

 

Roy is easily kicking his ass. He’s down to only eight pieces, and no matter where he moves, he’ll have to sacrifice one of them.

His inexperience must be obvious. He’s only played several games of chess in his life, but he won every round out of sheer vindictiveness and a refusal to be beaten at anything

Now he’s starting to lose hope. He’s just digging a deeper grave with every turn.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” He settles on sacrificing a pawn.

“Sure,” Roy replies, removing his dead pawn from the board.

“Earlier, when you said that you and Hawkeye are never going to get together, I’m guessing you guys have some super-secret reason.”

Roy’s posture goes stiff; his discomfort transparent without saying a word. Ed hadn’t meant to evoke such a strong reaction. He really didn't expect it to be such a sensitive topic.

“Relax, I’m not gonna ask you to tell me what it is,” he attempts to backtrack, “but can you give me an idea of what level of secret we’re talking about? Are we talking tenth date material or a deathbed confession?”

Roy seems to relax marginally, a strained smile reaching his lips.

“Closer to the latter,” he replies.

When he offers no additional information, Ed understands that he should drop the matter. That would be the polite thing to do.

“So I’m guessing it’s a bit more complicated than fraternization protocol?” he asks cautiously, fully aware that he’s walking on eggshells.

“Quite a bit, yes,” he responds tersely.

Ed decides to leave it there. Roy obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, and he should be respectful of that. Even if the curiosity will keep him up all night.

For years he – and virtually everyone else in the military – assumed that fraternization policy was the only obstacle standing in their way. Or at least preventing them from making their relationship public. The rumors seemed to die down a bit as the years dragged on and other office romances usurped the spotlight.

Military couples were not uncommon. It was impossible to outright ban them when such a large portion of the population served in some branch of the military. There were strict rules regarding chain of command and workplace interaction, but there were plenty of couples who made it work.

But Hawkeye and Mustang have been working side-by-side for more than a decade now. It would be easy to transfer her under a colleague’s command and make their relationship official, but there was no indication they had any desire to do so.

“How about this,” Roy interjects, “you get to ask one question per move. If I beat you before you figure out the answer, that’ll be it. Yes or no questions only.”

Well, that’s one way to raise the stakes.

At this point, the match is virtually over. Now the goal is to figure out the best defensive strategy to keep himself alive as long as possible.

“Okay, I’m down.”

Roy nods in consent.

Ed turns his eyes back to the board, analyzing every conceivable move. As expected, his options are very limited.

“Does Hawkeye not like men?”

He moves a pawn a paltry space forward.

“Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t. I don’t know.”

His bishop corners his rook.

“I thought you could only answer yes or no.”

“I can’t give you a straight yes or no answer because I genuinely don’t know.”

That information is surprising in and of itself. He assumed that they shared everything with each other, but maybe their relationship is more professional than everyone likes to speculate.

“Alright, fair enough.” He steeples his hands in concentration. “Have you guys ever been together?”

He moves his rook to guard his queen.

“No.”

Roy’s knight traps his rook.

“And the secret is more complicated than ‘we’re just not that into each other?'”

His queen retreats further.

“Yes.”

Roy shifts his queen to the right, putting him in check.

He frantically wracks his brain for increasingly wild conspiracy theories. This would be so much easier if he knew anything at all about Hawkeye’s personal life or backstory.

It’s been more than a minute since his last turn, and he still can’t come up with a decent question. He’s glad they’re not following strict chess rules, otherwise he would be required to forfeit the match at this point.

“You’re never going to get this,” Roy finally sighs in exasperation, “so I’ll give you a hint. I know who my father is.”

There’s a non sequitur for the history books.

As Ed absorbs this new information, he realizes that Mustang is probably messing with him. After all, he was incredibly guarded about the matter just a couple minutes ago. It’s hard to imagine him voluntarily offering a clue.

“You know who your father is, so you and Hawkeye are never going to date.” He parses it out like a riddle, scanning Roy’s expression for any hint that he’s lying.

Roy just gives a simple nod in affirmation.

He turns his attention back to the board. It’s unlikely that he’ll survive long enough to figure out the complete answer, so he may have to settle for only half of the mystery. Assuming that Roy's telling the truth in the first place.

“Fair warning, I’m just going to highjack the questions to figure out who he is.”

Roy shrugs. “I can’t object. I gave you the initiative.”

Ed takes that as consent, and lasers in on his surviving pieces.

“Is your father still alive?”

His queen is dead no matter what.

“Yes.”

She’s gone.

He’s down to the wire now. With that question out of the way, there’s one more that he absolutely needs to ask to have any chance in hell of figuring this out.

“Would I know who he is?”

“Yes.”

Back in check.

“Wow, not even a ‘probably.’ That’s big progress. Let’s see. He’d have to be older than fifty.”

A million unhelpful questions flood his brain, but he only has three, maybe four moves left. There are a lot of older men in this country. He needs to whittle down the possibilities somehow.

“Is or was he in the military?”

He shifts his king diagonally.

“That’s technically two questions, but yes, in the present tense.”

Check.

He really wasn’t expecting to get an affirmative answer on that one. Men in the military over fifty. Someone who he would know.

“Is he ranked lower than you?”

He moves his king to the right.

“No.”

Check.

That's a major advancement. There are now only a small handful of people who it could be. Maybe about a hundred. Although, it occurs to him that Roy might be significantly overestimating his knowledge of military personnel. He never bothered memorizing names back when he was enlisted, and these days the only high-ranking officials he knows by name are the ones who constantly appear in the papers due to various scandals.

“Is he stationed in Central?”

He pulls his king back.

“Yes. And checkmate.”

His heart jolts, even though he easily foresaw this outcome. He stares down at the arrangement. Sure enough, he’s completely cornered.

“I have one more question left before you kill me.”

“Use it wisely.”

At this point, he has enough information that he could probably narrow down the candidates with outside research, but the answer is so close he’s trembling. With nothing left to lose, he settles on the only high-ranking military official he can think of who isn’t embroiled in scandal.

“Is it Führer Grumman?”

He moves his king forward in suicide surrender.

“Yes.”

Roy valiantly knocks his king off the board. The small piece of black wood clatters against the floor and rolls into the far corner, probably accumulating several layers of dust along the way.

Ed slowly raises his eyes to Roy’s face. He’s still staring down at the board, detachment written across his expression, the bishop who dealt the final blow still pinched between his fingers. With a deep sigh, he places it on the floor and slides the remaining pieces off the board, then opens the box to begin putting them away.

“Grumman? Are you sure?” he asks, not sure what else to say.

“I didn’t deduce it. He told me.” He stands up to retrieve Ed’s murdered king.

“Is _he_ sure?”

Roy calmly walks back and places the king in the box alongside the rest of his friends and foes. Then he latches the box shut and gives a resigned sigh.

“According to my foster mother, my mother was something of his mistress. He paid a handsome price to keep her on retainer, on the condition that she serve him exclusively. I don’t know if my mother had any real interest in him. She was barely conversational in Amestrian, so I can’t imagine that their relationship was particularly deep. But according to everyone involved, he’s the only one who could have gotten her pregnant.”

Ed’s mind is reeling. He met Grumman several times in passing back at Eastern Command, but only ever had one private conversation with him.

He was sitting in the cafeteria chatting with Al when a soldier came up to their table and said that General Grumman wanted to see him in his office immediately. Ed was never one to be intimidated by authority, but he knew that Grumman was the highest-ranking official in the east.

He followed the cadet up to his office, all the while feeling like he was being called to the principal’s office for misbehavior. Except, instead of hitting someone on the playground, his long list of transgressions could merit a dishonorable discharge.

The interior of his office was jarring to say the least. There were toys lining the shelves and potted plants neatly arranged along the windowsill. There were colorful trinkets strewn about, and the man himself was sitting at his desk working on the base of a card tower, which toppled the second Ed shut the door.

He can’t remember the full extent of their conversation, but he recalls sitting in a chair so high that his feet dangled above the floor. His attention started to waver once it became clear that Grumman had no intent to discipline him.

But there was one part of their conversation that he remembers quite vividly.

 

_You’ve been giving Colonel Mustang a bit of a hard time recently. You’re all he ever talks about._

_Doesn’t he have anything better to do besides micromanaging me?_

_Oh, I don’t think he does that. Quite the opposite really. Although when you’re not here, he fusses about like a parent waiting for their kid to come home from a party._

_He’s the one who sends me all over in the first place._

_That’s true. But can you do me a favor? Just between us. Give him a call every now and then. Just to let him know you’re okay. It really does worry him when he can’t get a hold of you._

_Yeah, sure._

 

The meeting ended shortly thereafter. Before he was dismissed, Grumman handed him a fresh clementine, even though they were way out of season.

It’s hard to imagine that quirky old man hiring a prostitute as his mistress. But then again, that meeting happened almost thirty years after Roy was born. A person can change drastically in that amount of time.

Roy continues, “My foster mother shook him down for money pretty hard after she found out. Thankfully, he paid up. Although the blackmail may have been a motivating factor. He sent her cash throughout her pregnancy, and claimed that he was saving up to rent her an apartment. He had no plans to marry her of course, but that may have been asking too much.”

Ed bristles a bit at the unmistakable undertone of bitterness in his voice.

“Then the police raided the brothel. It happened all the time back before prostitution was legalized. The police would arrest everyone inside, make them pay a fine, then release them and everyone would get back to business. My mother was the only immigrant in the group though, so they detained her.”

“And Grumman didn’t try to get her out?”

“Oh, he tried. But he was only a major at the time. He didn’t exactly have the resources or connections to get her released. At least not without destroying his reputation in the process.”

He falls silent for a few seconds; glancing over to the fireplace to stare into the simmering coals.

“Do you know how they deport Xingese aliens?” he asks.

Ed shakes his head no.

“It was the same back then as it is today. They put them on a train that goes down through Aerugo and around the desert. Grumman told me that he planned on bribing one of the guards at the train station since that would have been much easier than trying to negotiate her release from prison.”

He already knows how this story ends. It feels cruel to make Roy say it aloud.

“But then she died. And from then on, he sent cash, and I lived on the top floor. I didn’t even know I had a father until I was fourteen. Granted, that aspect wasn’t his fault. My foster mother wanted to keep it a secret until I was old enough to make my own decisions.”

The duality of this information is difficult to process. On the one hand, Ed feels honored to the point of reverence that Roy trusts him enough to share this secret. On the other hand, the ethical implications are causing his moral compass to go haywire.

“Wait, so you’re telling me that this whole rags to riches bottom of the barrel origin story you’ve been spoon feeding the public is all bullshit, and you’ve actually been benefitting from one of the craziest cases of nepotism in history?”

Roy gives an amused huff. “One could make that argument.”

“Aren’t you in line for the Führership or some shit?”

“No, that’s just talk. We’re not _that_ corrupt. If Grumman dies in office, his deputy will become Führer Regent, and we’ll hold an election a year later.”

This is all starting to border on surreal. To Roy’s credit, he’s doing a good job maintaining his mask of calm collection, but Ed can sense that there’s an ocean of repressed tension steeping beneath the surface. There must be, after a lifetime of guarding so many secrets.

“As fascinating as all this is, none of it explains why you and Hawkeye are never going to date.”

He knows it’s incredibly selfish to ask for more information, but he gets the impression that Roy really wants to tell him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have suggested this game in the first place.

Roy pauses, apparently collecting his thoughts. Or coming up with an excuse.

“Grumman had a daughter twenty years older than me who was married to an alchemist. She died young, and left behind her own daughter. Grumman knew I was fascinated with alchemy from an early age, so when I was sixteen, he sent me to live with his son-in-law and train as his apprentice. His name was Berthold Hawkeye. Guess who his daughter was.”

The cogs click into place.

“Fuck… Holy fuck…”

The gears in his brain are starting to screech under the strain. His mind is racing with memories of all those years he served under Mustang. All those times he saw the two of them interact, and felt all-encompassing jealousy swallow him whole.

“Are you okay?” Roy laughs. “By the way, it’s not a state secret that Hawkeye is his granddaughter. You’re just remarkably out of touch.”

“She’s your niece?” It sounds like nonsense coming out of his mouth.

“Half-niece, biologically speaking.”

Biologically. Why does that word make his shudder?

“Who else knows about this?”

“As far as I know, Grumman, my foster mother, Hawkeye, and you. And a few other retired prostitutes, probably.”

“Fucking wild.”

The understatement of the millennium.

He stares at the geometric patterns in the carpet beneath him, completely devoid of words. Still recounting all his past memories of Mustang and Hawkeye; trying to insert this new information into the context of their relationship.

He remembers the Promised Day, when they all stood together in the catacombs beneath Central Command. Mustang on the verge of scorching Envy into ash, and the Lieutenant holding a gun to his head; threatening to kill him and then herself if he snapped his fingers.

Watching the scene in front of him, Ed could interpret it as nothing less than two lovers a breath away from committing a crime of passion. When in reality, it must have been two desperate people clinging to what little family they had left.

“Ed,” Roy snaps his fingers to get his attention. “I don’t have to tell you that this is a secret of the utmost importance,” he says in a tone of mock seriousness.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. What the hell would I have to gain by telling anyone? Besides, it’s not like anyone would believe me. And I’m assuming there’s no evidence.”

“None that I’ve been able to find. But just so you know, if you were to tell anyone, I’d be forced to sue you for libel. I won’t be happy about it, but I’ll do it.”

His tone may be teasing, but Ed wouldn’t doubt his willingness to carry out that threat.

“Understood.” He nods firmly. “It’s just so fucking crazy. Like the kind of thing you’d read about in a novel, and then complain that it’s too outlandish.”

Actually, when he steps back and analyzes the scenario rationally, it’s really not that out of the ordinary. A man got a prostitute pregnant. It happens all the time. Of course, leave it to Mustang to turn his whole life into a chess game where one wrong move could bring everything crashing down.

“Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. All in all, it worked out really well for you too. He helped me cover your ass so many times.”

“Great, now I’ll be implicated in the court case.”

“Do you really think I had the clout to cover for you every time you went off book? He did you more favors than I can count, and never asked for anything in return.”

The affection in his tone is contradictory to the bitterness that was creeping through earlier, but that’s hardly surprising. Ed’s feelings about his own father can change rapidly on a minute-by-minute basis.

“That’s the nepotism talking. But still, do you… resent him a bit? I mean, if he’d married your mother, that would have made her an Amestrian citizen. It sounds like she might have survived if she’d had better medical care.”

Truth be told, refusing to marry her sounds like the least of his misdeeds.

He abandoned her in a jail cell while she was in the late stages of pregnancy. Without any contact with the outside world or hope of release. Barely able to comprehend the words spoken around her. Probably mistreated to the point where her body simply gave out and went into premature labor. She was likely handcuffed to the bed while giving birth, terrified until the very end that her baby was going to be taken away from her. 

Grumman resigned her to suffer through that instead of swallowing his pride and trading a few favors for her release. Ed supposes that’s the kind of indescribable guilt that could compel a person to change their life for the better.

Roy sighs. “And that’s why I didn’t speak to Grumman face-to-face until my twenties.”

“I can empathize with that.” For once, those aren’t just empty words. “I never told you the full story about my father, did I?”

Roy shakes his head. “I gathered snippets from all the sporadic monologuing on the Promised Day, but no, I never got the full story.”

“Well," he sighs, "equivalent exchange then.”

He tells him everything. At least as much as he knows. There are still gaps in the narrative that can never be filled, but he doesn’t doubt for a second that Roy believes every deranged word coming out of his mouth. When he finishes, Roy's expression has hardly changed.

It suddenly occurs to him that his father lived for almost five hundred years, and yet it took him less than ten minutes to narrate his entire life story. He wracks his brain for more details, but comes up empty. He's literally exhausted every scrap of information he received. Now his father's story is just another fragment of his heritage lost forever due to his own childish obstinance. 

“See how crazy it is? I’m not even sure I believe all of it.”

“It’s a testament to how stubborn you are that you can literally stand toe-to-toe with God and still have doubts about anything in this world.”

He laughs a bit. Stubborn is far too kind a word.

"But the worst part of it is… I burned our house down. There were books in there that my father wrote in Xerxian. I thought they were just practice notes. I didn't pay any attention to them. But that might have been all that was left of Xerxes."

He finishes the final words on a whisper, as the weight of the crime he committed comes crashing down full force.

"That's not all that was left," Roy attempts to soothe him. "There were Xerxian people already living in the west by the time the empire fell. Sure, you and your brother might be the last with strong blood, but there were plenty of survivors."

"But we could have learned so much more. And I burned it all."

This is so fucking typical. Roy just divulged the most important secret of his life, and somehow, he has still found a way to make everything about himself.

"Ed, you can't spend the rest of your life feeling guilty about something like that. Psychologically, you just can't." If Ed didn't know any better, he'd say that Roy was pleading with him.

"It's not just the books," he sobs. "I burned my house down. My mom's clothing, Al's toys, my fucking finger-paints. I burned all of it for no goddamn reason."

"You were grieving."

"That's no excuse."

"You were twelve."

"What equally dumb shit did you do when you were twelve?"

Roy pauses for a moment to think, as if he could actually come up with something comparable.

"I stole a diamond-encrusted watch that a customer left behind, and when he came back for it and no one could find it, he threatened to shut the place down."

Ed offers a small laugh. It's by no means worse than his own childhood mistakes, but at least it makes him smile a bit.

"Who the hell brings a diamond watch to a brothel?"

"My logic exactly."

"Did you give it back?"

“No, of course not,” he scoffs. “My foster mother just threatened to reveal his activities to his wife and employer and he left us alone. I kept the watch for eight years, then sold it after Hawkeye’s father died to give her some extra cash.”

The absurdity of this entire situation is starting to make him delirious. He's not sure whether his body wants to laugh or cry anymore. This entire week has been an emotional minefield as he's repeatedly darted from one end of the spectrum to the other, desperately searching for some measure of respite in Roy, only to find layers upon layers of chaos buried beneath his facade of stability.

"You're giving me so much dirt right now. You're not afraid it'll bite you in the ass one day?" he laughs.

It's difficult to see clearly through the tears in his eyes, but he can swear that Roy is smiling at him.

"You're a good person, Ed. You hate making people suffer. I can only assume that–"

The phone rings, and the sound nearly makes him jump out of his skin.

After two more rings, Roy looks into his eyes apologetically, then stands to walk over and take the call.

"Hello?"

Ed wipes his nose on his sleeve and presses the fabric against his eyes. It's hard to believe it's still early afternoon. He feels exhausted down to his bones.

"Yes, I'll be there in twenty," he states firmly before dropping the phone into the cradle and immediately dashing towards the stairs.

"What's going on?"

"Possible bomb threat right outside Central Command," he shouts as he starts running up the stairs.

Ed remains there; huddled on the carpet, listening to the floorboards creaking above his head. In the solitude, he finally has a chance to process everything they just shared, and how unfair it is that everything in the world can go wrong so quickly.

Roy comes running downstairs a few minutes later in full uniform.

"Don't wait up for me!" he calls.

The door slams shut. Suddenly, the heat of the fire feels unbearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tactfully ignore that one line in Volume 6, Chapter 25, page 166 when Grumman asks Mustang to marry his granddaughter.  
> It seems like the eternal plight of the Royed writer is coming up with a compelling reason why Mustang and Hawkeye don’t end up together without dismissing the depth of their relationship.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short, sweet chapter after the last two marathons.

Ed dashes to switch on the radio mere seconds after Roy leaves the house. It’s a Saturday, which means that the news updates are fairly light. There’s talk of a train derailment in the north, a factory fire south of Central, and reflections on the recent roll out of a fairly controversial law that made some changes to the public school system.

There’s no mention of a bomb threat. The Central forces must be keeping it under wraps to prevent widespread panic. After three hours of anxious listening, Ed feels fairly confident that the bomb did not and will not detonate. It’s too bad his brain is refusing to listen to reason.

He can’t turn off the radio. Even as the news updates taper off and the channels start playing music and radio dramas. He keeps listening, just in case there’s an emergency broadcast. His imagination is twisting itself into knots of paranoia. He’s been waiting for six hours now, and as each second ticks by, the probability that Roy is dead increases marginally. 0.3848%, 0.3849%, 0.3850%. Eventually, it’ll reach a hundred.

He keeps feeding wood into the fireplace, even though the house feels like a furnace and the fire is making him restless. He really needs to use the bathroom, but is too afraid to leave the fire unattended. When it finally gets too unbearable, he rolls the rug away from the grate and clears all the flammable objects off the mantel. Of course everything is fine when he returns several minutes later, but he still waits for the fire to simmer down into coals before he risks going to the kitchen to find something for dinner.

At ten o’clock he pours himself a glass of whiskey from Roy’s liquor cabinet. He gulps it down quickly and immediately washes the glass for fear that Roy will catch him in the act. Unfortunately, his tolerance has increased substantially, and one glass has barely any effect. But he can’t have more out of fear that Roy will notice when he comes home. And he will come home.

Maybe it’s a good thing he and Roy aren’t in a relationship and probably never will be. If he can’t handle the stress of a simple bomb threat, then there’s no way he would be able to cope with the routine dangers Roy must deal with on a day-to-day basis.

He would be the clingy partner stuck at home, constantly worrying, picking fights over not calling, drinking to handle the stress, and driving their relationship into the ground. A pathetic wreck in constant need of attention and validation; infecting Roy with his own anxiety like a virus.

He can’t remember ever worrying like this when he was a kid. How the hell did he manage to stay so optimistic when everything around him was in constant chaos? There was that period before the Promised Day when he and Al were separated for months. Of course he worried about his brother, and thought about him at least every hour, but he was still perfectly capable of functioning normally.He wasn’t consumed with this debilitating mania. His mind didn’t trap itself in hypothetical hellscapes where his brother was always dead.

He used to be the bravest person he knew. How the hell did he dart out into battlefields? How was he able to summon the courage to pick fights fully aware that the odds of survival were stacked against him? Maybe if he was out in the field his fight or flight instincts would prevent him from thinking too hard about the risks, but here at home, all he can do is sit on the couch and conjure up every conceivable disaster scenario.

Suddenly, he hears the front door open. His entire nervous system jolts with the shock. He turns around quickly to see Roy in the entryway, kicking off his shoes and removing his coat. Ed quickly scans his body. There don’t appear to be any injuries. He looks tired, but there’s no other evidence of harm. Relief floods through him like a drug.

“You’re still up,” Roy says, glancing towards the clock over the mantel, which reads half past one.

“I couldn’t fall asleep. Is everything okay?”

“For once,” he sighs, “everything is fine.” He takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch.

“Some kids from the university planted a fake bomb in one of the guard stations around the wall. While we were inspecting it, one of the members of the bomb squad happened to mention that it looked exactly like a device he recently helped his daughter build for an electrical engineering course.

“So we got in touch with the professor and got the class list, then started knocking on dorm room doors. The third person we spoke with gave himself up immediately, and threw his friend under the bus too. I don’t know if we’ve ever wrapped up an investigation so quickly. Just a bizarre series of lucky breaks.”

The scenario he just described is something along the lines of what Ed’s one rational brain cell was trying to communicate all night, but he stubbornly refused to listen. It doesn’t matter though. They’re on the other side of it, and everything is fine.

“Good night then?”

“Good for us. Bad for them. They just threw away their futures.”

“Will they go to jail?”

“They’ll go to court. Then a judge will decide.”

Those “kids” he’s talking about are probably the same age as him.

“Sorry, but I really need to smoke.” Roy stands up and starts to walk towards the kitchen.

“I don’t mind.”

“My security deposit does. I rent this place you know.” He disappears down the hallway, and Ed can hear the sound of the backdoor opening and closing.

He lasts about two minutes before his need for proximity takes control. He grabs his coat from the entryway and slips it on while walking towards the backdoor. A cold rush of air blows into the overheated house, but it’s actually refreshing after being cooped up by the fire all day.

Roy is sitting on the wooden steps leading down into the yard. He offers a smile and doesn’t protest when Ed takes a seat next to him.

The temperature is surprisingly mild. He can see his breath in the air, but barely. Central is probably in the midst of the last warm spell before winter truly sets in.

They sit in silence for a while. Roy smoking, Ed glancing up at the stars, even though they’re barely visible through the film of the city lights.

“I’m glad you’re here, Fullmetal,” Roy says quietly, exhaling smoke towards the sky.

“We haven’t spent all that much time together.”

“I know, but just knowing you were here, it made coming home a little nicer.”

Ed wraps his arms tight around his middle and curls in on himself. Roy should know better than to just say shit like that.

“Can I ask you something?” Roy says, twisting his cigarette on the underside of the step.

“Shoot.”

“When you got in touch with me, were you planning on telling me how you felt?”

They made it thirty-six whole hours without talking about it. Apparently the honeymoon of denial is over, and Roy wants to trudge through this mess and get back to reality.

“No, not at all. I thought I was completely over you.”

“When did you realize you weren’t?”

“Pretty much the second I saw you again.”

Roy gives a small laugh. “It tends to happen that way.”

They revert back to silence, although it’s less comfortable than it was before. Ed glances back up at the sky. The night is clear, and he can vaguely see the pinprick glow of Mercury.

“I think I’d like to try this,” Roy says. “I don’t exactly know what that means, but whatever this could be, I’d like to try it.”

Ed sends a silent prayer up to the heavens. He thinks back to the philosopher who created the beautiful book that contains the emblem of his portal. How he believed that people should consume large doses of mercury to stay healthy. Maybe all of these threads tie together in unexpected ways.

“What changed your mind?”

“Remember the other night, when you said that you felt guilty for turning down sex when people offered?”

His stomach lurches.

“Shit, Roy, I’m sorry, I don’t–”

“No, don’t apologize,” he interrupts. “Really, it’s not about sex. It’s more that… I feel like I’ll regret it down the line if I don’t at the very least try this. I know that sounds horribly selfish, and it is. You would have far greater emotional investment than me, so the power dynamic would be unequal. But I genuinely feel like I can’t know whether or not this is something I want unless we try it.”

Ed feels like he’s walking on a tightrope. His first priority is to build up a wall to restrain the sheer joy threatening to overwhelm his common sense. His impulses are screaming, _Yes, yes, yes, I’ll be whatever you want me to be. I’ll love you unconditionally. Whatever you want, whatever you need, just take it, it’s yours._

But Roy’s voice is laced with caution. It’s really more of a disclaimer than a confession. He wants a trial run with a full warranty, even if the ordeal leaves Ed broken.

“Just so we’re clear, you want to date me… to figure out whether or not you’re attracted to me?”

“I am attracted to you. I’d be surprised to find someone who isn’t. But I’m afraid that the second I get too close, I’ll just see that twelve-year-old boy again.”

Ed cannot begin to describe the emotional toll those few sentences just took on his mind and body.

“That twelve-year-old boy doesn’t exist anymore. And he never will again.”

“I know. But my brain can’t compartmentalize things that efficiently. And it’s not just your age. There’s so much about this that would make our lives immeasurably difficult. I wish I could simply ignore all of that, but I don’t think I’m that well-adjusted.”

Logically, Ed recognizes that everything he’s saying is perfectly reasonable. It’s probably for the best that he’s laying this all out now, rather than giving him false hope and regretting it later down the line. Even if it makes Ed feel like he’s a piece of secondhand clothing being tried on before a purchase.

“Do you see any type of future with me?” he asks, trying to sound unaffected.

“We can’t think that way, Ed. We just can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because, if you decide to date people based on pure rationality you’ll be alone forever.”

Ed knows that to be true, but he also knows that people who start relationships with no concern for the consequences are usually confronted with a painful reckoning sooner or later.

“What about your precious career track?”

“I’ve strategically decided to not think about that.”

“That’s probably a bad idea in the long run.”

“Probably. But at this point, I really can’t afford to push people away. I’ve been trying to date since I got back from Ishval last June, and it just hasn’t been working. I used to think that I just had awful luck when it came to relationships, but at this point, the statistical evidence indicates that I’m the problem.”

Suddenly, Roy’s rapid change of heart makes a lot more sense. It must be tempting to enter into a relationship with someone who is already fully committed to you. Roy wouldn’t need to put any effort into earning his support or affection. He wouldn’t have to worry about Ed cheating on him, and there’d be little to no fear that he would leave.

Roy was right. The terms would be very unequal.

“So, you’re desperate?” he asks, not even caring if it sounds abrasive.

Roy chuckles. “I think that’s a fair assessment. Even if it’s not a pleasant thing to hear.”

“So I’m the last resort.” He doesn’t even bother phrasing it as a question.

Roy sighs, and stares at Ed until he relinquishes and looks him in the eye.

“Is there anything I can say that will make you believe how worthy you are? Of everything?”

Ed doesn’t even bother answering the question. Trying to convince him of his own self-worth would be like trying to persuade him that the floor of the ocean is red as blood. It’d be impossible to prove, but also impossible to invalidate. They’d be stuck in a stalemate, but no amount of subjective conjecture could convince him that it was fact.

“You said the other day that I shouldn’t be eager to settle. That kind of sounds like what you’re doing.”

“Believe me, I’ve thought about settling many times before. I’m not settling for you. And listen, if the conditions seem too unbalanced, there will be no hard feelings if you say no. But please believe me when I say that I don’t want to cause you any harm or unhappiness. I’m not trying to manipulate you, or give you an ultimatum or anything. I just genuinely don’t know if I could be okay with something like this.”

Ed does believe him, and he does understand, but that doesn’t make his words any less brutal in their honesty. Roy must be fully away that he’s fundamentally incapable of turning him down. That he’s not really offering a choice, but a set of provisions. He’s dampening his expectations to make it easier when this inevitably falls apart.

Then again, maybe he’s being too pessimistic. After all, even if Roy enthusiastically agreed to this from the get go, their dynamic would still be unstable. Ed would be entering the relationship with six years worth of built up affection. It would take months or years before Roy reached an equal state of reciprocation.

But isn’t that how all relationships start? There’s always someone who makes the first move. Even in long-term partnerships, there’s always someone with more investment than the other. There’s always someone who's more heartbroken when things don’t work out. That’s just a reality of relationships. It’s a childish fantasy to think that two people can be perfectly equivalent in their love for each other, as if there was some quantifiable way to measure it in the first place.

In the end, he already knows that he’s going to say yes. Everything else is just commentary.

“Okay. I’m game. Like you said, I have no idea what that means, but I’m game.”

The words are heavy on his tongue. It almost feels like he just mouthed the words ‘I do’ at his wedding.

“Just promise me one thing.”

“Sure.”

Ed doesn’t even need to hear it. He’ll blindly agree to any condition Roy stipulates.

“If I say that it’s not going to work, please promise me that you’ll be respectful of that decision. No explanation required.”

Ed understands what he means.

_If touching you makes me feel like a pedophile, please don’t make me say that to your face._

“Okay. But I want you to promise me the same thing.” He glances back towards the stars, trying to think of some condition he can add to make this agreement remotely fair.

“I like you. I have for a long time. But we all idealize the people we have crushes on, and then later realize they’re not everything we imagined them to be. So if I say no, you’ll be respectful of that too. Even if you decide you want me after all.”

It’s all false posturing. He would stay even if Roy treated him like garbage. It would take an unfathomable amount of abuse to compel him to leave.

“Yes, I promise.”

Ed sighs, unable to shake the sense that he just made a deal with the devil.

Then he lets out a laugh.

“God, we’re being so dramatic. Should we sign a contract or something? I mean, we’re talking about dating, not negotiating a prenup.”

“We both have a flair for melodrama,” Roy laughs in return. “Besides, I think that if it really isn’t meant to be, we’ll both know very quickly.”

The implication may be subtextual, but there’s no doubt that he’s referring to sex. One touch is probably all it will take for him to know. They may not have sex tonight, or in the near future, but it will happen eventually, and that will be the test. Whether he passes or fails is out of his control.

Roy reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder, right over the scar tissue left behind by his automail. Ed leans into the touch, wishing that he could feel the skin of his palm. Then Roy’s hand gently travels across the expanse of his back to rest over his left arm. He stays there for a moment before gently pulling him closer. The action would be far less awkward if Ed wasn’t stiff as a corpse.

Roy doesn’t seem deterred though. He pulls him in until his muscles acquiesce and his head comes to rest on his shoulder. Ed closes his eyes and allows himself to breathe into the touch; feeling his body expand and contract within Roy’s embrace.

This is it. This is everything he’s ever wanted. Everything he’s dreamt about since he was first aware of his own existence as a social creature and sexual being.

He sends another prayer up to Mercury.

_Please let this work out. Please let me have this. Just this once, please let everything be okay._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It just occurred to me that some of you guys might not know that Hawkeye is canonically Grumman's granddaughter. There's some trivia for ya!

His ears pick up a familiar ringing noise. In his dream, it registers as a fire alarm blaring on the wall of his house, but as he drifts towards consciousness, he realizes that it’s actually the sound of a phone. It stops abruptly, and Ed allows his eyes to adjust to the familiar ceiling of the guest room. It’s a Sunday morning, which means that the phone shouldn’t be ringing. Something must be wrong.

Something is always wrong.

He dozes languidly for a few more minutes as his vision wavers in and out of focus. Suddenly, the door swings open, jolting him back to awareness. Roy is standing there in the frame, still wearing his sleep clothes, his hair a tussled mess.

“What’s going on?” Ed asks, lethargically pushing himself up while rubbing his stinging eyes.

Roy slowly moves forward to sit on the edge of the mattress.

“Grumman is dead. He passed away in his sleep last night.”

Everything locks into place. Ed sits there, stone-still, absorbing the information.

The country’s ruler is dead. They are now a nation without a leader. Ed’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to think or feel at a time like this. For the moment, his only impulse is empathy. His mind is shouting commands at him: soothe, comfort, make it better. There’s nothing he can do though. Nothing he says or does will provide any reassurance.

“Natural causes?” he asks cautiously. What are you supposed to say when someone tells you that their father is dead?

“It seems that way. They’ll do an autopsy for confirmation, but there are no signs of foul play.” He falls silent, his expression unreadable.

“Still,” he goes on, “dying in your sleep at eighty. That’s really the most any of us could ask for.”

Ed knows that it’s incredibly selfish to be angry at the universe for bringing this about mere hours after Roy agreed to give this thing between them a fighting chance. Grumman may have already been cold in his bed by the time Roy put his arm around him on the back porch.

The air is so still it feels like he’s still in a dream. It’s hard to believe that these walls are shared with strangers. Citizens who are still sleeping, blissfully unaware that the Führer is dead.

Roy slowly raises his eyes and begins to inch closer along the bed, settling barely more than a few centimeters away. Ed remains completely still, afraid to move lest he startle Roy away like a frightened deer.

Then Roy buries his head in the crook of his neck. Ed shivers as he feels his breath dance across his collarbone. Slowly, he brings a hand up to cradle the back of Roy’s head; tangling his fingers in the silky strands and rubbing his thumb along the tender base of his skull.

“What do you need to do?” he asks quietly, reluctant to disturb this moment of peace.

“Not much for the moment. We’re going to keep it under wraps until the autopsy is complete. We’ll probably make the public announcement tomorrow.”

They stay in the same position for a while longer. Ed continues stroking his hair while Roy lies completely still, as if he’s fallen back asleep.

It’s painful to think that this connection may be temporary. It might be nothing more than intimacy via circumstance. Any affectionate gestures may simply be part of his grieving process. Not insincere, but impermanent.

“I have to go to work,” Roy finally groans as he pulls away.

“Of course.”

He rises from the bed and begins to walk towards the door.

“Roy,” he calls just before he vanishes into the hall. “Anything you need. Seriously anything.”

Roy stares back at him, seemingly at a loss for what to ask for.

“Just be here when I get home?”

“I will.” As if he were capable of abandoning him at a time like this.

Roy gives a sad smile and shuts the door behind him.

Ed collapses back onto the bed as he hears the sound of the shower running through the wall. He lies there for a while longer, attentively listening to Roy’s footsteps move around the house. Finally, he hears the faint sound of the front door closing.

He breathes deeply. This house was now a place of mourning. That magical period of luxurious selfishness has come to an end. He needs to take care of Roy now. That’s his only priority.

He walks down to the kitchen and discovers that there’s barely any food left in the refrigerator. That’s an easy enough problem to fix, and he really needs to get out of the house anyway.

He gets dressed and walks to the closest market square. It’s a Sunday morning, which means that the entire city is mingling about in the streets. The weather is still surprisingly warm, and everyone seems to be enjoying this brief respite from the oncoming cold.

There are people sitting around the fountain eating sticky buns, playing with their children, and talking about everything except for politics as public custom dictates.

None of them are aware that the ruler of this country is now lying on an autopsy table. They don’t know that the nation is going to be thrown into shock and chaos within the next twenty-four hours. This is the perfect embodiment of the calm before the storm. It’s eerie. Like he’s walking in a parallel time stream.

He’s not sure whether Roy likes to eat or starve himself under stress. Even if it’s the former, it’s unlikely that he’ll have the motivation to do much cooking. So he stocks up on items that will last a long time: apples, carrots, potatoes, a bag full of plain rolls, some cured jerky, and a couple bars of dark chocolate. At the very least, Roy will be thankful if he doesn’t have to go grocery shopping for a while.

He buys more than he can comfortably carry and has to take a taxi back to the house. Once everything is unpacked, he scans his surroundings for any other basic chores. It feels intrusive to do Roy’s laundry or clean the bathrooms, so he settles for sweeping the floors and brushing all the dust and debris out the backdoor.

It’s still only eleven o’clock. Roy will probably be gone for most of the day. He’ll have to sit in meetings and make arrangements with an infallible mask of civil mourning; expressing no more grief than a colleague would for his commanding officer. It might be easy in the early stages, but it will get progressively harder as reality catches up with him.

The novel Roy lent him is still lying where he left it on the carpet in the library. He tenderly picks it up and flips to the first page.

Roy read these same words back before any of this happened. Before he knew who his father was. Before he became a state alchemist. Before he fought in a war and became a killer. The loss of innocence becomes overwhelming as he reads each page and allows a few stray tears to drip onto the paper.

The phone rings at about three o’clock. He hesitates for a moment, afraid to answer in case the caller questions his presence. But then he remembers that there’s no reason for anyone to be suspicious. He’s a friend and a houseguest. Why shouldn’t he be here?

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.” Ed’s heart rate slows down a bit at the sound of Roy’s voice.

“I just wanted to let you know that everything is fine. I mean, logistically, at least. I’m at Riza’s place right now, and I’ll probably be here until fairly late.”

Of course, Riza. Grumman was her grandfather. This whole ordeal must be just as difficult for her.

“Yeah, of course, stay as long as you need.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you later.”

Ed supposes there’s not much else to say. Especially since Hawkeye is probably within earshot.

“Okay, see ya.”

“Bye.”

The line drops dead.

There are still hours left to kill. He showers, eats some soup, then goes back upstairs to Roy’s library. He withdraws the ancient leather tome from the desk and opens it on the carpet. After locating the page containing his emblem, he scans the shelves for another specific book.

Roy’s dictionaries are all scattered. Xingese, Aerugian, Drachman, he skims back and forth along each row until his eye catches a tattered Xerxian one on the bottom shelf, the typewritten library call number still pasted onto the spine.

He settles onto the carpet with the old quilt wrapped around his shoulders. After glancing between the etching and the dictionary, he realizes that he can’t look up any of the words because he doesn’t know how the Xerxian alphabet works. The preface has a conversion chart, but the layout is confusing since some letterforms represent multiple sounds and certain vowels and consonants can be swapped interchangeably. It takes about an hour before he feels comfortable navigating the alphabet, and then he sets to work translating the words dotted around his symbol.

He jots them all down on a piece of scrap paper:

_Crown. Wisdom. Understanding. Kindness. Severity. Beauty. Eternity. Splendor. Foundation. Kingship._

All uselessly subjective. Maybe each word holds some grand theological importance, but without cultural context, they’re meaningless.

After finishing the translation, he loses all motivation to begin analyzing it. Instead, he turns to the next page and begins copying down the sporadic inscriptions printed around the central motif. He’s frustrated to the point of anger, but he dutifully presses forward, as if he could reconstruct his lost heritage through this secondhand resource word-by-word.

The front door opens around nine.

Ed carefully shuts the book and deposits it back in its designated drawer, then he walks over to the guest room to drop his notes on the bed. From the top of the staircase, he can see Roy buckled on the couch with a glass of liquor in his hand. His uniform jacket is thrown over the back of the couch and his shoes are lying next to him on the carpet.

Ed descends slowly; suddenly filled with a self-conscious sense of formality.

“Have you had dinner?” he asks.

“No.”

“Do you want to binge eat or have nothing at all?”

Roy smiles a bit. “Nothing at all, thank you.”

“Can I interest you in some unbuttered bread?”

“Think you can handle that all on your own?”

Ed is on the verge of spitting back something snarky, but he restrains himself. Roy doesn’t need that right now. Not even as a joke.

“I’ll be right back.”

He disappears into the kitchen and grabs two plain rolls from the cupboard. The thought of a full meal doesn’t hold much appeal for him either. He doesn’t bother bringing any plates, and it occurs to him too late that Roy might be pesky about crumbs. Although that’s probably the last thing on his mind right now.

It doesn’t seem to be an issue. Roy gratefully accepts the roll and takes a large bite, chewing slowly.

“The coroner confirmed that cause of death was a stroke. It didn’t come out of nowhere though. He was prescribed blood thinners a couple years ago.”

He takes another large bite and washes it down with the rest of the liquor in his glass.

“There’s going to be a public memorial service this Friday and a private ceremony on Saturday. I have to give a eulogy at the public one, but it’ll be one of many.”

Ed fiddles with his own roll, suddenly repulsed by the prospect of swallowing food.

“Will you be able to go to the private one?”

“Yeah, we were close enough that it won’t seem strange.”

He nibbles a bit more of the outer crust, but the peak of his appetite seems to have passed.

“I still haven’t cried yet. Maybe I don’t need to. After all, this isn’t a tragedy. Not like when Hughes died.”

Ed’s throat grows raw from suppressing the urge to cry. Something about the impassive tone of his voice is even more depressing than unrestrained grief.

“I didn’t cry when I found out my father was dead,” Ed says tentatively. “I’ve cried for the answers I never got from him, but not directly for him.”

It feels reprehensible to talk about himself at a time like this, but he’s truly at a loss for anything else to say.

Roy takes one more bite before placing the half-eaten roll on the side table.

“I didn’t have any loose ends with him. I told him years ago that I forgave him for what happened to my mother. Even if that’s not entirely true, he died thinking it was. But I never loved him the way I love Riza, and I’m sure he knew that.”

Ed is in physical pain from trying to hold back his tears. How can Roy say these things with such a blank expression?

“His wife and daughter died very young, and he and Riza were never close. I think he always held out hope that one day I’d accept him as family.”

Ed wishes he could find some words of solace. Instead of just sitting here uselessly. He’s right back on the kitchen floor with his mother crying in pain while clutching her broken toes. All he can do is sit here, and hope that his presence will provide some morsel of comfort.

Roy reaches a hand out and places it on his shoulder. He squeezes it a bit, then starts to pull him in closer. Ed gladly complies and nestles into the crook of his neck, just as he did last night and as Roy did to him this morning.

To be honest, he’s thankful that Roy still wants to touch him at all. Grief is complicated, and Ed half-expected him to shun physical contact altogether. It’s nice that he still seems open to it. The angle is giving him a crick in his neck, but he wouldn’t move for the world.

Winry once told him that after giving birth, a mother will instinctively hold her child against the left side of her chest so that the baby can listen to her heartbeat. It’s an inborn trait, the desire to hear the pulse of the people we love. It gives us assurance that they’re alive, and it reminds us of that precious time before birth.

He knows that it would sound creepy, but he wonders if Roy would let him unbutton his shirt. How can he explain that he’s not trying to initiate sex? He just wants to press his ear against his chest and listen to the steady thrum of his heart.

Honestly, he’ll never have the courage to ask for something like that. For now, he's content to lie here and appreciate the rise and fall of his breath.

Then he feels Roy rotate his head a bit and press a kiss to his scalp.

The action is bittersweet. It’s the first time Roy’s lips have ever touched a part of his body, but the sensation is almost tragic because he knows that it doesn’t hold as much significance for Roy as it does for him. The intensity of emotion is not equivalent. Roy might enjoy the warmth of his body, but this primal possessive urge stirring inside of him cannot be mutual.

He wants to sleep with his hand splayed across Roy’s back to make sure he continues breathing throughout the night, like a parent sleeping next to their sick child. He wants to wash his hair, brush his teeth, and inspect every inch of his skin to clean out anything trapped in his pores. He wants to lie in bed and bring him to climax over and over again so that his endocrine system will release tidal waves of hormones that will promote bonding and possessiveness.

Ed knows that these desires are his and his alone.

But he’s not the one introducing this contact. That’s all Roy’s doing. He’s the one softly kissing his hairline, his brow bone, the crest of his nose. It’s his mouth migrating down his cheekbone, leaving a trail of wet heat from his breath. It’s his lips tilting forward, bringing their closed mouths together.

It’s brief, but Ed can still feel the thin film of moisture after he draws away. It doesn’t have a chance to dry before Roy leans in again; holding their mouths together for slightly longer.

He does it again, and this time, Ed opens his lips a hair’s width and allows Roy to feel the supple flesh of his inner lip.

Ed knows nothing about strategy or technique. He’s never enjoyed kissing before as a sexual activity. He only understands it in this context. As a simple gesture that humans use to express affection. Something natural and intuitive for which science has yet to find any logical explanation.

It just feels nice.

The joy and exhilaration are so intoxicating that he briefly forgets that this is an absolutely terrible idea. Roy’s in the process of grieving. He’s not in the right state of mind to be making decisions like this. Decisions that might feel harmless in the moment, but could have lasting consequences.

Even if things do work out between them, their first kiss shouldn’t be happening under these circumstances. It won’t be a happy memory when they reflect on it. The misery of the coming days and weeks will drown out all recollection.

But it’s too late now. It’s happening. Roy is running his tongue along his lower lip and Ed is instinctively opening wide to allow him entrance; the texture and taste of Roy’s saliva mingling with his own.

They may both be adults, but that doesn’t mean every decision they make will be grounded in rationality. There will be no perfect moments in life. Stress and fear will follow them like a pair of shadows. They will endure periods of devastation that will drain them to the cusp of emptiness. That’s simply an unavoidable part of life. Maybe the best they can do is accept that reality, and try to create some happy memories where they have no right to exist.

Roy’s hand is now resting at the small of his back, and is starting to glide up beneath the fabric of his shirt. Ed shivers as he feels his palm ghosting higher, cresting each of his vertebrae. Roy breaks the kiss to tug a bit at the hem of his shirt, silently asking permission. Without hesitation, Ed grabs the fabric at the nape of his neck, yanks it off, and drops it to the floor.

With that decision, he’s sealed their fates. If this is the type of comfort Roy needs, he’ll give it to him, and selfishly enjoy it for himself too.

Despite the unideal circumstances, he can’t suppress his unbridled relief. Roy is actively touching him. He’s not recoiling in disgust or shamefully averting his eyes. He’s touching him enthusiastically, his breathing heavy and face flushed.

It’s a small victory. It’s no guarantee that this will ultimately work out between them. Sex is only one of many obstacles standing in their way, and in the grand scheme of the rest of their lives, it may be the easiest to overcome.

But it’s still a step forward. Even if it will make it all the more painful if the other barriers prove too resilient.

He gasps when Roy places a hand against the center of his bare chest. Goosebumps erupt across the surface of his skin as his fingers begin to drift lower. A sudden sense of self-consciousness threatens to shake his resolve as he realizes that his body is not as muscular as it used to be. His lack of exercise and recent loss of appetite have left him slimmer than he would like. The pattern of his ribs and the sharp ridges of his collarbone are more pronounced than might be considered healthy.

As a distraction technique, he pulls his hair out of its ponytail and allows it to cascade around his shoulders; his insecurity telling him that if he looks more feminine, Roy will find him more attractive. Maybe he’s right, because Roy immediately surges in to start kissing the tender spot below his ear, and Ed can hear him audibly inhaling the scent of his hair.

A choked moan works its way up his throat when he feels a hand pressing between his legs. He voluntarily arches into it while wrapping his arms around Roy’s shoulders and pulling them both back until his head hits the padded arm of the sofa. Roy continues delicately licking and nipping along the line of his neck while rubbing his cock through the fabric of his pants. The frustrated ache grows worse as he squirms and shifts in an effort to find the spot where he needs it the most.

He unravels his arms from Roy’s shoulders and searches for the buttons of his shirt. With shaking fingers, he works his way down. The tension between his legs intensifies, but still falls short of satisfying. The teasing is becoming intolerable. Like scratching a bug bite even though you know the pain will outweigh the pleasure.

Ed finally sets the last button free and hungrily runs his hands across the expanse of Roy’s smooth chest. He’s not sure what else he’s supposed to do. Even now, it feels invasive to touch him anywhere more intimate. Roy has all the control here. He’s the one setting the limits. An unexpected shroud of unease overcomes him as he realizes how little power he’s given himself.

In a startling feat of dexterity, or desperate urgency, Roy unbuttons and unzips the front of Ed’s pants and reaches inside.

Everything short-circuits. He stares down between their bodies, mentally grappling with the fact that Roy’s hand is now covering his cock, even though the evidence is still hidden beneath his clothes.

When his other partners touched him, he had to constantly remind himself to stay present. Sometimes the wires didn’t work right. The signals got confused, and it was difficult to register that his hand, his cheek, his neck, his cock, were actually being touched by another person. In hindsight, his brain may have been intentionally cutting wires to provide him with a safe barrier of detachment.

The same thing shouldn’t be happening right now. He can’t fall into disassociation at a time like this. He needs to stay present, to remember what this feels like. Why the hell does he suddenly feel scared? Maybe it’s just the adrenaline trying to trick him into thinking he’s in danger. That must be it. There’s nothing for him to be afraid of.

Physically, his body is still responding despite his mental apprehension. The heat and pressure of Roy’s hand are actually provoking a stronger reaction than he expected. The constriction of his clothing leaves little room for movement, and without lubrication, the feel of Roy’s skin rubbing along his shaft is fairly rough. But he can’t stop rocking his hips in time with his movements. Objectively, he knows that it doesn’t feel very good, but the stimulation is still creating an autonomic response. The contact is sending signals to his brain that this is supposed to be pure, concentrated pleasure.

Then he feels the bulge of Roy’s cock eagerly pressing against his thigh, which stuns him out of his own head.

He grips his shoulders, breathing raggedly. Confused and embarrassed that this may be enough to get him off. It really shouldn’t be happening this quickly. Especially when the dryness of Roy’s hand is grating against his increasingly sensitive skin.

But it’s happening. The energy is pooling between his legs, tightening in his balls, his cock burning from the friction. His body fast-tracking his response cycle to dispel this unbearable agony.He’s shaking, his body intent on maintaining this high while also chasing the apex of it.

Roy lifts his head away from his neck, and Ed opens his eyes to see him staring down. It suddenly dawns on him that Roy is going to see his face when he comes. No one has ever seen him in that moment.

He’s not sure what it will look like, but it won’t be attractive, he knows that much. A fresh wave of insecurity takes hold as he tries to clench his muscles to postpone the inevitable. He considers using his last breaths to tell Roy to stop, look away, or bury his head back in his neck and stay there.

But before a single word can escape, his pelvis erupts in a swarm of pleasant tingles, and then a visceral stretch. A medley of clipped moans leave his raw throat as his abused nerves sing in relief and expel everything trapped inside. The momentum plateaus, leaving him suspended somewhere above the reach of gravity. It’s so deep. A concentrated mass of energy buried so far down that it was impossible to reach on his own. His vision tunnels for a second, then settles into blackness punctuated with pulsating lights.

Once it passes, he greedily gasps in air and forces the tight muscles in his face to relax. His head lulls to the side, seeking out the soft texture of the couch, the muscles in his neck sore from the angle of the armrest.

He feels Roy withdraw his hand and push himself into a sitting position. Ed finally opens his eyes, and a spark of anxiety spasms through him when he sees Roy’s expression.

He’s just sitting there, stoically staring at the cum coating his hand, his disposition drastically more apprehensive than it was less than a minute ago. If this is what he looks like while trying to mask his emotions, Ed can’t begin to imagine what’s hiding beneath the surface.

“Are you freaking out?” he asks gently after an uncomfortably long spell of silence.

“A bit,” he replies, still staring intently at his palm.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

The alarm bells in Ed’s head are earsplitting. His endocrine system is in overdrive, spitting out a concoction of chemicals both positive and negative. His brain is trying to force him into a state of post-coital bliss while also immersing him in an adrenaline-fueled state of stress. To make matters worse, the force of orgasm has left him with a headache.

“Was it too weird?” he asks, trying to hide his panic.

“It was weird, but not in a bad way. I don’t think. It didn’t feel wrong.”

The fact that it felt weird at all is like getting kicked in the gut.

“That’s good, right?”

“I think so.” He still hasn’t turned his gaze away from the cum cooling on his hand.

Ed needs to fix this. This is exactly what he was afraid of. He can’t fail this test. He just can’t.

His shirt is still lying on the floor. He picks it up and scoots closer to Roy, who thankfully doesn’t flinch away as he draws closer.

Gently, he takes Roy’s hand and wipes away the evidence of his orgasm. He cleans his skin as if preparing to dress a wound. Roy watches attentively, and doesn’t pull away once he’s finished.

In an act of desperation, Ed raises his hand to kiss the pads of his fingers. Roy lets out a soft sigh, and Ed takes that as permission to go further. He slides his forefinger into his mouth, sealing his lips tight, coating his finger with saliva and caressing it with the flat of his tongue. He lifts his eyes to look at Roy, searching for approval and finding it in the slight part of his lips.

Ed holds his hand in place as he begins bobbing his head; tightening and relaxing the pressure of his mouth as he runs his tongue along the nerve-rich underside of his finger.

Then he takes a second one into his mouth. Roy shudders hard as he clenches the edge of the couch with his opposite hand. Ed purposefully stares down at his crouch, taking in the sight of his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers. He moans softly around his fingers, making his intent clear.

He slides down to the floor, removing his fingers from his mouth with a wet pop. Roy spreads his legs without any further coaxing. Ed settles there, reinvigorated by his obvious interest.

“Before you attempt thinking any deep thoughts, would you like me to take care of this for you?” he asks, slowly rubbing a hand along his inner thigh.

“I’d like that.”

Before he has the chance to change his mind, Ed quickly moves to unbuckle his cavalry skirt. He manages to unlatch the buckle, but has to fumble a bit to find the hem of his trousers, which Roy apparently finds hilarious.

“Shut up,” he grates, finally finding the head of the zipper and yanking it down. His hands won’t stop trembling.

He pulls his dick out and spares no time taking him deep into his mouth. A full-body tremor wracks Roy’s frame. Ed can feel his muscles tensing as he resists the urge to thrust up into the wet heat engulfing him.

There’s no time for him to appreciate the fact that this is really happening. He’s actually sucking Roy’s cock; something he’s fantasized about doing for years. He wishes he had the confidence for dirty talk so that he could tell Roy in explicit detail how he has touched himself to this exact scenario. How he’s always imagined teasing and coaxing him to release while rutting against his leg.

That fantasy feels so impossibly distant now. It’s frustrating. He’s finally where he wants to be, but the stress is overshadowing any enjoyment. Stress at the prospect of performing poorly, Roy rejecting him, changing his mind later, telling him that this was never meant to be, or maybe that all of this really was nothing more than a side effect of grief.

Ed’s not even trying to coordinate his actions into something resembling technique. He doesn’t have enough experience even if he wanted to. It’s messy and ungraceful as his saliva drips down his shaft and stray strands of hair stick against his lips, which are starting to tingle and go numb.

His single priority right now is to overwhelm him. To make everything else in the world irrelevant except for the warm cavern of his mouth. Hopefully, the effects of orgasm will calm his reservations. He’ll realize in the afterglow that there was nothing to be worried about. Everything will be fine. He’s practically praying on his knees that everything will be fine.

What’s more, he needs Roy to finish quickly. The trembling in his arms and legs is getting out of control. If he has to keep this up for much longer, he may fall headfirst into an anxiety attack.

“Ed,” Roy pants, clearly closing in on the edge.

Ed pulls his mouth away and gives a wet kiss to the tip of his cock while continuing to stroke at the base.

“Do you want to come in my mouth or on my face?”

Roy nearly comes at those words. His body goes taught and he clenches his eyes tight. Ed pauses his strokes and waits for it to pass.

“Your hair. Please.”

It’s strange. In his fantasies, he never imagined being grateful that Roy would want to come on a part of his body where he can’t feel sensation.

Resuming his strokes, he gives him a few more licks and light sucks. Once he feels Roy’s muscles lock into place, he rubs his shaft along his cheek and angles him towards the hair loosely dangling over his shoulder.

Roy grips the edge of the couch tight as his body convulses. It seems like he’s trying to hold back any sound, but a tortured sob still makes it past his defenses. Ed can feel his cum hitting his hair and the shell of his ear. He strokes him through it until all the tension drains away.

Once he’s finished, Ed exhales in relief. He made it through. It’s over.

He gives his cock one last kiss before gently tucking him back into his trousers. He smooths down the fabric and glances up to see Roy staring down at him, still panting heavily.

Ed supposes that he must be a sight worth seeing. He’s nineteen, shirtless, and objectively attractive according to several sources. There’s spit dribbling down his chin and cum glazing his long, blonde hair.

His legs are starting to fall asleep from kneeling on the floor for so long. Still, he waits patiently for Roy to tell him what to do. A sense of self-loathing permeates as he realizes just how much he hates this feeling of powerlessness. He hates forcing himself into a position of subservience. Roy never asked for it, but he’s too terrified of rejection to do anything without explicit permission.

Roy reaches down to cup his cheek and Ed leans into his palm like an animal. Roy pulls his hand forward, encouraging him to come back up onto the couch. Roy leans back against the armrest and kicks his feet up so that he’s lying prone. He opens his arms, and Ed takes the invitation to curl up next to him.

The couch is narrow, but they both manage to fit somehow. Ed lays his hand flat over Roy’s chest to search for the soft thud of his heart. A sense of calm flows through him once he’s able to locate that steady beat. Now that the arousal has subsided, his exposed back is starting to grow cold, and he’s grateful for the warmth of Roy’s hands rubbing soothing lines up and down his spine.

He shuts his eyes, compelling his brain to stay quiet and just let him enjoy this moment. It’s infuriating how rapidly his emotions are fluctuating; darting from fear, to euphoria, to anger, affection, apathy, peace, love, it’s all too overstimulating and confusing. He needs to stop constructing imaginary monsters. Why can’t he just let himself rest? Just for a little while.

His thought patterns begin to morph into feverish dreams as he floats in a post-coital daze. He’s not sure how long he lingers in that sub-dreaming state. It could be hours or minutes; it’s difficult to tell.

Then he feels Roy shake him a bit, and he stutters awake.

“Why don’t you head upstairs? I have to take care of some stuff down here, but I’ll be up soon.”

Ed nods and disentangles himself from Roy’s embrace. He grabs his discarded shirt and languidly makes his way upstairs, almost missing a few steps in his stupor. First, he goes to the guest room to toss his shirt in with the rest of his laundry, then he heads to the bathroom to try to clean himself up.

The cum in his hair is low enough that he can wash it out in the sink. He crouches over the faucet and runs his fingers through the sticky strands. It’s not dry yet, so it washes out smoothly.

He stares at himself in the mirror while combing out the last of it. Once he’s finished, he allows himself to succumb to that bizarre, hypnotic state that manifests whenever you stare into a mirror for too long. That feeling when you become hyper-aware of the fact that you’re an intangible soul existing inside a corporeal body. The sense of dysphoria swells as he watches his pupils minutely dilate and constrict.

This should be one of the happiest moments of his life. He just performed oral sex on Roy Mustang, a man who he’s now in a tentative relationship with. He should be ecstatic, but he barely feels anything.

He remembers returning from fights as a kid and staring at himself in the mirror for a while, taking in the sight of his bloody lips, black eyes, and bruised skin. He would analyze his injuries, in awe of his body and dizzy from the adrenaline of escaping death.

It’s probably a very bad sign that he’s falling into the same type of trance right now.

He knows that his mind is still constructing barriers. His defenses are preventing him from getting too hopeful, telling him not to enjoy this too much because the odds are still stacked against him.

But what if that feeling never passes? What if he and Roy spend years together, and he squanders that time by constantly second-guessing how much longer it will last? It’s hard to imagine ever reaching a point of security. He might just sabotage himself and waste this entire relationship waiting for Roy to leave.

He finally breaks eye contact with himself and starts brushing his teeth.

Roy still hasn’t come upstairs yet. It feels inappropriate to go into his bedroom alone, but that’s what he told him to do.

He enters the dark room and goes to the side of the bed that seems less slept-in. He pulls the covers over his shoulder and stares at the door, listening, waiting for the sound of Roy’s footsteps.

What if Roy wants more tonight? What if he’s expecting anal sex? That would be the logical progression. The steady trill of numb anxiety rapidly swells into panic.

He won’t be able to do it. That’s not even a question. He’s going to start breaking down if Roy even tries to touch him that way. It’s not that he’s scared Roy will hurt him. He’s afraid because he would probably let him if he tried.

What if he can never do it? He’ll have to confront it at some point or other. He can’t force Roy to risk his career and livelihood for this incredibly controversial relationship, and then deprive him of penetrative sex. He might act polite and say that it’s not a big deal, but over time, that frustration will grow into resentment.

The room starts spinning in concentric arches. He shuts his eyes to try to quell the vertigo, but the darkness just makes it worse. He starts reciting the periodic table backwards as he tries to calm his breathing.

These are all hypotheticals. This isn’t a matter of life and death. Whatever happens next won’t kill him. He’s safe, warm, and everything will be fine.

Roy’s footsteps start ascending the stairs about twenty minutes later. Ed huddles tight beneath the blankets, even though he’s starting to sweat.

Roy opens the door slowly and Ed shuts his eyes to feign sleep. He hears Roy shuffle around while removing his clothes, and when Ed opens his eyes, he sees that Roy is only wearing his boxers. He holds his breath while waiting to see if he’s going to strip naked.

To his relief, Roy picks up a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the top of the laundry hamper. Once dressed, he carefully settles beneath the blanket on the opposite side of the bed. Ed inches towards him a bit, pretending to bemore tired than he truly is. Roy wraps an arm around his shoulder and Ed presses up against his side, desperately hoping that he won’t try to initiate sex again tonight.

“You’re shaking,” Roy says, rubbing his arm to create friction, as if the cold were really the cause.

“That happens sometimes,” Ed replies, nesting further into his arms. He hopes that Roy will leave the matter alone. The tears will break if Roy tries to make him talk about his feelings right now.

“I’m sorry,” Roy says in a calming tone, “I escalated that really quickly. I should have checked in to make sure you were okay.”

Ed’s breath hitches.

“If I wasn’t okay, I would have told you,” he lies, hoping that his voice doesn’t sound too uneasy.

“Good. I’m not normally like that.”

“You’re not allowed to apologize for anything at a time like this.”

He has to keep reminding himself that Roy’s father is dead. He died just this morning. Ed’s own emotional distress is nothing compared to what Roy is experiencing this very second. He was forced to spend the entire day making funeral preparations for one of his only known family members. In comparison to that, Ed is nothing more than a minor side issue.

He’s over-inflating his own importance in Roy’s life, which will only hurt him down the line.

Roy sighs deeply.

“I don’t want to deal with any of this shit. I wish I could just sleep through the next couple of months. I’m exhausted just thinking about everything that’s going to happen.”

“I feel bad for leaving you tomorrow.”

His train leaves at one o'clock, but he still hasn’t bought a ticket yet. Maybe Roy will ask him to stay longer. Maybe he can actually make himself useful and find a way to help him through this.

Roy gently massages his bare arm. “Go spend some time with your family. Things will be really crazy and stressful around here for a while, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Ed can’t help but feel a sting of rejection. Roy doesn’t want him here.

Maybe that’s a dramatic assumption, but at the very least, he doesn’t _need_ him here.

He knows that he shouldn’t take it personally. The next couple of weeks will be chaos within the ranks. There’s no point in him sulking around Roy’s house doing nothing while the entire government tries to reorient itself under the command of a new leader.

He really should go home. There are people there who will want to see him.

As he drifts to sleep against Roy’s chest, he can’t help but feel somewhat disheartened. Of course it was stupid to imagine that sex with Roy would somehow unfuck his head and solve all of the problems he’s accumulated over years of cyclical trauma. It was an adolescent fantasy to believe that another person’s dick could somehow rewire his brain.

Even here, in Roy’s bed and in his arms, he feels almost exactly the same as he did yesterday. Except it’s almost worse, because now he has something to lose.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to break this chapter up into two parts because the second half hasn't been cooperating. So expect the next chapter to be fairly short and hopefully coherent!

At seven o’clock, Roy twists away to hit the alarm clock into silence.

It’s one of those mornings when all of the terrible shit in the world hits you immediately after you open your eyes. Ed’s barely conscious, but he's already exhausted. Roy probably feels the same.

Roy begrudgingly sits up after a few minutes of silent dazing. He cracks his neck and back, then rises up and heads out into the hall. Ed in turn shifts over to the warm patch he left on his side of the bed.

Roy briskly showers and returns to put on his uniform. He dresses so quickly to avoid the cold that Ed doesn’t even have a chance to take in the sight of his naked body. Once he’s finished, he leans over the bed to cup Ed’s cheek.

“I’ll try to call you tomorrow night,” he says quietly, as if Ed were still sleeping.

“Don’t even think about me.” He reaches up to hold his hand in place, pressing it closer and absorbing its heat.

Roy lingers for a while and Ed feels guilty for tempting him with the prospect of a warm bed and body when the responsibilities laid out in front of him are so unkind.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” Roy says softly.

“Just tell me when you want me again.”

Roy smiles and strokes his cheekbone a bit. Even now, Ed can’t help but hope that he’ll ask him to stay. Even if he can do nothing more than keep the bed warm.

“Goodbye, Fullmetal.” Roy turns and begins to walk away, but Ed keeps a grip on his hand until the distance becomes too great.

He can’t find the motivation to get out of bed until eleven-thirty. Even when his stomach starts cramping from hunger and the gentle tick of the clock begins to sound like a bomb ticker. It’s only a fifteen-minute cab ride to the train station, and it’s not like the train to Risembool is going to sell out.

Eventually, he manages to drag himself to the guest room to pack up the cum-stained shirt and sweatpants that he’ll have to discreetly wash when he gets back. His time getting ready in the bathroom is brief. After all, there’s no point in brushing his hair or making himself presentable when he’s going to spend all of today and most of tomorrow in a train car.

He calls a taxi and eats a roll while waiting. It’s the same one he abandoned last night, and the outer crust is thick and tacky.

The cold has returned and it’s worse than before. The sky is overcast and small specks of ice are circulating in the wind. It’s certainly fitting weather for the coming announcement.

Once he arrives at the station, he easily buys his ticket and gets on the train with five whole minutes to spare. As expected, there are plenty of open seats, and the car will only get progressively emptier along the route.

The whistle blows soon enough. They start chugging forward and the station steadily vanishes into the distance. They pass through the industrial districts, suburban neighborhoods, and eventually they reach farmland – completely barren from the recent harvest.

The public announcement is made around four o’clock. As soon as they start pulling into the small village of Rinensis, a teenage boy begins running along the cars, shouting at the top of his lungs: “Führer Grumman is dead! They just announced it on the radio!”

Ed is grateful that he’s the only person on the train who got to hear the news in a private setting.

For a while he’s worried that the train is going to stop running for the day, but thankfully the conductor lifts the brakes just fifteen minutes behind schedule. The Führer may be dead, but life doesn't stop. When chaos comes to call, sometimes the best anyone can do is maintain the illusion of stability.

They arrive in Risembool around three the next day. Winry is waiting for him on the platform, bundled up in several layers. She dives forward to hug him the second he steps off, nearly causing him to go tumbling backwards.

“I’m so glad you made it. I was worried they’d delay the train. When did you hear the news?”

“Don’t tell anyone, but I found out on Sunday. I was staying at Mustang’s place over the weekend.”

Winry links her elbow around his and starts to lead him towards the road.

“God, what a nightmare. The entire town has been holed up in Schedel’s Bar listening to the radio. I know the military was well-prepared for this. I mean, he was really old. But it’s still scary. Did Colonel Mustang happen to spill any classified information?”

He doesn’t bother correcting her that he’s not a colonel anymore.

“I don’t think there’s much to keep classified. He died naturally, and now Wolgemut is acting Führer. I don’t think there’s much of an evil plot there.”

“Well, at least I now have confirmation that it _was_ natural. You wouldn’t believe the conspiracy theories floating around.”

They walk arm-in-arm back to the house, pressing against each other for warmth. She catches him up on all the latest village news, and he tries his best to listen attentively despite his overwhelming fatigue.

As a kid, he could ride the rails for days and jump off full of energy. Any aches or ailments he acquired along the way would vanish after a hot meal and two hours of sleep. Getting old really is the worst.

As promised, Roy does call that evening. Unfortunately, he has to call from the line in his office, so there’s an implicit requirement to keep their conversation censored.

“How’re you holding up?” Ed asks.

“I’ve been better. In terms of short-term demands, I feel like I’m drowning. But at least I’m not too concerned about the broader issues. Wolgemut is a good man, and he seems to be adapting well so far. I personally helped Grumman vet him during the selection process. Right now my main priority is helping Hawkeye. She’s his sole inheritor, so there’s a lot to sort out in settling his estate.”

There’s something profoundly sad about the fact that Grumman couldn’t make a place for Roy in his will. Although, Ed wouldn’t be surprised if he instructed Riza to slip him some stuff under the table.

“Just take care of yourself, okay?” Ed says hesitantly, worried that he might be crossing a line too intimate.

“I’ll try. For the moment, I’m just trying to keep my head above water.”

The rest of the week passes by in a morbid daze. The town continues going about its business, but a cloud of nervous energy hangs heavy in the air. These past two years under Grumman’s rule have been the most peaceful Amestris has ever known. Even with the promise of a trustworthy replacement, the political situation is still fragile, and it’s nerve-wracking to wonder if the past two years were nothing more than an anomaly.

Winry and Granny carry on as usual. They’re a commercial business and the town’s de facto doctors, so they can’t allow politics to put a wrench in their work. They receive calls from patients at least three times a day, and every time the phone rings, Ed waits on edge to see if it’s Roy.

It never is, and he always feels awful for expecting it to be.

The public memorial service attracts nearly half-a-million people. The three of them gather around the radio, listening to the ceremonial eulogies. To his surprise, Roy doesn’t deliver a speech. Ed listens to the very end, until the cavalry fires a round of blanks and the trumpets start playing. Maybe Roy decided to tap out at the last minute. Maybe the grief finally caught up with him.

Ed considers calling to make sure he’s okay, but then he realizes that Roy never gave him his home number. He still has the slip of paper containing his work number and the passphrase to get through the switchboard, but it feels desperate to call him on that line.

He’s worried though. Roy is probably getting support from Riza, but a selfish part of him hopes that Roy will also turn to him for comfort.

He decides to wait until next Friday. If Roy doesn’t get in touch with him by then, he’ll call him at the office. Just to make sure he’s doing okay.

The phone still remains a constant source of torment. Eventually the sound alone ruins his entire day, and it takes at least an hour to wind down from the sharp disappointment.

On Thursday he finds himself mindlessly listening to the radio when Roy’s voice comes out of nowhere. The feedback of the microphone distorts his pitch slightly, but it’s unmistakably him.

The host introduces him, then begins asking questions about the logistics of the transition and the electoral process. Roy articulately answers all of his queries, perfectly calm and collected throughout the half-hour segment.

Ed can barely sleep that night as rejection and hurt consume him raw. Over the course of the past week, he managed to convince himself that Roy's silence was due to depression. He envisioned him all alone in his house, too depressed to go to work, take care of himself, or even speak. He cultivated this elaborate fantasy in which Roy finally called him in tears, begging him to come back and make things better.

He spends the next day obsessively rereading the number and passphrase until he can recite them as easily as his own name. He rolls and worries the slip of paper between his fingers, pacing back and forth between the couch and the phone. Once the clock hits five, his window of opportunity is gone.

Everything needs to be on Roy’s terms. That’s something he implicitly agreed to when he signed on for this arrangement. Roy has the right to take and leave him whenever he pleases. After all, this isn’t a relationship; it’s a trial period. He voluntarily revoked all right of agency, even if Roy doesn't know it.

It’s been two full weeks since he left Central. Still not a word. He’s afraid to leave the house for fear that he’ll miss the call. He’s afraid to shower, to go to the bathroom, every time the phone rings it evokes the same reaction as hearing an emergency alarm.

On the nineteenth day, he writes him a letter:

  _Roy,_

_Please call or write me. Just so I know you’re doing okay. If you need a break or some distance I understand._

_-Ed_

There’s still no reply by the twenty-fourth day.

Maybe something happened to him. Maybe he was called away on important business. Maybe there was an accident. Maybe he’s dead. No, that can’t be the case. The death of a beloved high-ranking official would at least make second-page news, right? He finds himself anxiously skimming through the obituaries anyway, angry at himself for adding this unnecessary source of stress to his life.

Maybe Roy really is depressed – too depressed to initiate any human contact beyond the bare minimum to maintain his public persona. Maybe he’s ashamed of exposing Ed to the extent of his grief and wants to mourn quietly without inconveniencing anyone else.

All of these hypotheses are just desperate distractions from the one reason he knows to be true:

Roy doesn’t want him.

 

* * *

 

After one month, he sends another letter:

_Roy,_

_Please call or write me. If this is over, please tell me._

_-Ed_

No response arrives.

 

* * *

 

“Fuck!” Winry curses from the kitchen, causing Ed to jolt from his spot on the couch.

“You okay?!” he calls back.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She comes out with a blood-speckled dishtowel pinched around her finger. “Just cut myself. It’s not that bad.”

She heads into the bathroom and emerges a few minutes later with a piece of gauze wrapped around her finger.

While lying in bed that night, Ed’s eyes drift towards the bookshelf containing the dense medical textbooks that they keep in his room due to lack of storage space. Against his better judgment, he takes one down and looks up the entry for tetanus.

The incubation period is long. It can take weeks before symptoms start to manifest. He only makes it through several paragraphs before slamming the book shut. His paranoia is getting out of hand. She cut herself on a kitchen knife, not a rusty fence.

Still, he can’t help but watch her like a hawk. For days he anxiously examines her mannerisms and starts to panic if she looks the least bit fatigued or pale. Rationally, he knows that he’s being stupid. She’s a surgeon. She understands her own body. She’d know if there was something wrong. These assurances do nothing to inhibit the nightmares in which he’s forced to watch her amputate her own arm.

How the fuck is he supposed to get through the rest of his life if he can’t even cope with the small injuries one receives on a day-to-day basis? How will he deal with the stress of having children?

Then he remembers.

He won’t have children.

He’s always known this, but for some reason the reality never quite registered. It never bothered him as a kid when he discovered his preference for men. Even as an adult, a childless life never seemed like much of a sacrifice. But now that he thinks about it, he never actively disliked the idea of having children.

It doesn’t matter though. He'll never be a parent, so there’s no point even thinking about it. He’ll never hold his own baby in his arms. He’ll never have the chance to raise and nurture another human being.

And maybe that’s for the best. He can’t imagine being a particularly good father when he’s not even a passably good person.

 

* * *

 

His port feels infected. Just like his nightmare at Roy’s house, his skin seems to twinge every time he takes a step. He closely inspects the scar tissue, and swears that he can see patches of red that are starting to itch and swell. He could ask Winry to take a look at it, but she’d just tell him that everything is fine and to stop overreacting.

But there’s an infection lurking beneath his skin. He’s sure of it. There are still metal bolts embedded in his right shoulder. They’re probably coated in rust by now, spreading bacteria into his bloodstream and steadily poisoning him.

One morning he wakes up with a pounding headache. It’s probably nothing more than a combination of dehydration, stress, and a horrible sleep cycle, but he still manages to work himself up into a state of hysteria over the possibility that there are tumors growing in his brain.

Like an absolute idiot, he pulls down a textbook on neurology and scans through the symptoms: headache, fatigue, insomnia, nausea, vertigo; they're all completely generic, but he still suffers from each one.

The tumors seem to grow larger by the hour. They’re putting pressure on his brain matter, dulling his reflexes, making him forget simple facts. They’re going to continue steadily chipping away at his cognitive functions until he’s reduced to a state of mental infancy. They’ll metastasize until his brain finally stops sending the correct signals to the rest of his organs.

He’s haunted by that day in the mine when he drained his own life force to heal his wound. He thought that he’d have more time before the consequences started catching up with him.

His body is already starting to disintegrate. He can’t run from it. He’s going to die.

He’s going to die…

 

* * *

 

A letter arrives from Al. According to the date at the top, it was written and mailed one month ago. Ed expected the delay to be longer, but apparently there are benefits to being a personal guest of the Emperor.

He reads the letter enthusiastically, and reads it again as soon as he finishes. Al is currently staying at the royal palace along the coast. He writes about the beauty of the ocean, the process of learning alkahestry, and to Ed’s relief, his struggle with the language. His enthusiasm is palpable in every word, and Ed can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy amidst his joy.

He really should go to Xing. That was the original plan anyway. His desire to see Al again can only be described as homesickness. He misses him so badly it feels like there’s a broken piece of his soul on the other side of the desert. Learning alkahestry would keep him occupied for a lifetime. He could immerse himself in a brand new school of thought that will distract him from this draining neuroticism.

But is he really stable enough to handle the journey to Xing when he can barely leave the house? He thinks back to his time in Creta: how he spent most of his days shut up in hotel rooms to avoid the overstimulation of being in a foreign environment. It’s delusional to think that he’d be any better off in Xing, even if Al was there to keep him grounded.

He spends a week agonizing over what he should write back. For a while he selfishly considers asking Al to come home for a visit, but he talks himself out of it. He can’t become the overbearing, codependent sibling. Al is such a good person. He would drop everything if Ed so much as hinted that he wanted to see him again.

Al is probably planning to stay in Xing for years. He might even get married while he’s there. He might create a home and have children. There’s no way he’ll be able to make the journey back to Amestris with small children. Ed could have nieces and nephews that he won’t meet until they’re fully grown.  
What if Al never comes back? How many more times will he see his brother before one of them dies?

What if Al is already dead?

From that point on, his anxiety devolves into full-blown psychosis. Every minute of every day, the refrain repeats incessantly:

Al is dead. Al is dead. Al is dead.

It’s impossible to escape. There are no distractions. He finally breaks down and starts crying when Winry mentions his name in passing. He buries his face in his hands so that he doesn’t have to see the alarm in her expression. She rubs his shoulder and soothes him like a mother, asking if she said something wrong, if there’s anything he needs.

If he tells her the truth, then she’ll realize that his issues extend far beyond the realm of seasonal depression. Besides, there’s nothing she can say or do that will change his mind. She can’t offer him any proof that Al is still alive. All of her reassurances will be empty. Nothing will subdue this mania until Al is back within his sight.

Soon it becomes a statement rather than a conjecture. Al is dead. The letters keep arriving, but they do nothing to placate him. All they prove is that he was alive and well a month ago. They mean nothing. He sobs uncontrollably as he reads them, convinced that Al held this paper and wrote these words mere days before his death.

Al is dead. Al is dead. Al is dead.

He rocks back and forth on his bed while clutching the letters to his chest. This is his worst nightmare. This is what hell feels like.

Al is dead. Al is dead. Al is dead.

Eventually he stops trying to suppress his conviction. It’s better to prepare himself for the worst. If Al returns home, then the relief will be indescribable. If he’s dead, then Ed needs to start preparing himself for a life without his brother.

 

* * *

 

He wants to drink so badly. There’s no alcohol in the house except for a bottle of something disgusting that Granny buys from a neighbor. He’s desperate enough, but she would notice if some of it went missing.

There’s one bar in town, but he can’t get plastered there without everyone three towns over hearing about it. The general store carries liquor, but word would get back to Winry and Granny eventually. Fuck, he hates small towns.

If he still had his alchemy, he could transmute some.

Maybe it’s for the best that he lost it.

 

* * *

 

It’s been seven weeks since he left Central.

Still no word from Roy.

He never should have called him from West City. He never should have put his hand on his thigh in the cab. He never should have confessed this stupid, hopeless attraction. He brought this on himself. All of it.

The election date has already been scheduled. No campaigns have been officially announced since the country is still in a state of respectful public mourning.

Roy’s going to run though; that’s not even a question. He can’t be in a relationship with a man and still win the election. There’s no amount of public polling or magical number crunching that will dispute that simple truth.

It’s such an obvious explanation, but that doesn’t make it any less painful to accept. Even if Roy wants him, he certainly doesn’t want him more than the Führership.

Just as he suspected, he over-exaggerated his own importance in Roy’s life. He let his narcissism override his common sense. How could he let himself believe that Roy would risk everything for the sake of some dysfunctional kid who spent a single night in his bed? Ed's very presence would be a liability. It would endanger everything that Roy has spent a lifetime working towards.

It was stupid of him to feel so entitled. To put himself on a pedestal and demand a place at the center of another person’s universe.

Roy owes him absolutely nothing. The world owes him nothing.

He stands at the kitchen sink washing dishes, whispering under his breath: “I am worthless. I deserve nothing. I am worthless. I deserve nothing.”

His breathing starts to stagger as the edges of his vision go black and hazy. He crumples to the floor with his head bowed between his legs; the mantra never ceasing.

 

* * *

 

He’s freezing all the time. The house’s central heating system is a decade beyond its expiration date, but Pinako never bothered renovating it since it rarely drops below freezing this far east anyway.

They haven’t had one snowfall this winter, yet his skin feels like paper against the chill. His body would probably have greater resistance to the cold if he ate more. Somehow, he managed to lose seven kilos during his three-month absence. He figured the weight would bounce back easily, but now he’s struggling to keep himself above the medical red line.

He’s simply not consuming enough energy. The body fat that’s supposed to keep him warm is melting away. The portion sizes he’s able to choke down are insufficient to say the least. As a kid, he was ravenous all the time. He would consume anything that was put in front of him. Now he usually makes it halfway through a meal before the pinpricks of nausea start to set in.

At night, he huddles beneath two wool blankets and blows into his chronically numb fingers until he grows dizzy and falls asleep. The only other place in the house he can stand being for long stretches of time is next to the wood fire stove in the kitchen. On particularly cold nights he has to sleep there, curled up on a thin mattress, anxiously waking up every couple of hours in fear that the blankets have caught fire.

“Hey, Ed.” Winry takes a seat next to him in front of the stove. “Do you want to try some of these?”

She holds out three thin bars wrapped in foil.

“What are they?”

“Ration bars. We buy them from a military supplier in East City. We like to give them to patients who lose their appetites due to the pain medicine.”

She still hasn’t offered him any medication, but this is probably a prelude.

“Yeah, sure.” He takes one of the proffered bars.

She looks at him expectantly, so he unwraps it and takes a small bite. It tastes like stale oats with a tinge of sour fruit, but he supposes flavor isn’t a high priority.

“They have about half the calories you need in a day, but there’s practically no nutritional value, so you need to eat some healthy stuff too.”

He nods his head. He barely moves these days anyway. It’s not like he needs many calories to keep his body functioning.

 

* * *

 

This house never used to feel like a hospital, but technically speaking, he supposes that’s what it is. They perform surgery every couple of weeks, and on those days the entire downstairs smells of disinfectant. There are bloody bandages in the trash and medical tools soaking in the sink.

They always warn him beforehand when they have patients coming over. It started out as a courtesy, but now it’s a requirement.

Everyone always says that trauma turns you into a shell. That’s what they say about soldiers returning from the battlefield: they’re shells, ghosts, hollowed out husks of their former selves.

He’s not a shell though. He’s bursting with life and emotion. His skin is crackling with energy, his brain moving faster than ignited gasoline. Each new day brings some new phobia or aversion. They never get resolved. They’re simply replaced with something else that steals the spotlight in the theater of his psychosis.

The shrill ring of the phone pitches him into a state of self-loathing and regret – asking a million what-ifs and maybes. Any mention of Al triggers a flood of morbid speculation. One day he comes downstairs to the sight of Winry working on a nearly finished arm, and suddenly the sight of his own automail becomes unbearable. A single glimpse of the metal evokes vivid flashbacks to that night in the basement; the memory of looking down to see his freshly mutilated body.

He can’t bathe for several days after that because he has to keep his leg completely covered. He tucks the hem of his sweatpants into his sock to hide it from view, but every hint of movement alerts him to its presence.

He’s never been so aware of it, and so desperate to have it gone. There’s nothing he wants more than to just grab a wrench and screwdriver and pry it from his port.

After a full week of being shut up inside, Winry manages to convince him to go for a walk. There are only two directions the road can take them, and she naturally leads them away from the center of town. Of course, this means passing by the skeleton of his house on one side and the graveyard where his parents are buried on the other. He manages to keep it together for the duration of the stroll, but once they’re back home, he immediately climbs into bed and doesn’t emerge until the next morning.

 

* * *

 

He supposes that his good luck was bound to burn out at some point. For his entire life he’s been the exception to every rule. He’s defied the laws of man and nature over and over again, achieving the impossible and confronting God in his own throne room.

It’s hard to accept that he may be vulnerable to basic human psychology. It just isn't fair. He was supposed to survive everything and make it out unscathed. He did his time and paid his dues; he deserves an exemption from the aftermath of trauma.

The most frustrating aspect is that he has no true source of stress in his life. His brother is far away and his crush won’t call him back. There’s no way he can independently sustain himself if those two tiny things can completely destroy his mental stability. Money, jobs, school, relationships, he has to stop himself from thinking about any of those things because they’re just too terrifying.

It’s funny, he’s been a cripple for nearly half his life now; but when he was confronted with that paradigm shift, he did everything in his power to regain his autonomy. He refused to accept a place in society lower than that of the able-bodied. He pushed through all limitations, proving time and time again that his handicaps were a strength rather than a weakness.

He never anticipated that his brain would be the part of his body to reduce him to a state of helplessness and inhibit his ability to function in normal society.

Winry has offered him medication twice now, and he turned it down both times. It’s stupid, but taking medication feels like a surrender. It would be an admittance that this is a condition and not an anomaly. Besides, she’s just offering him tranquilizers. They might give him surface-level relief, but they’ll do nothing to quell his larger anxieties.

He’ll still be worthless. He’ll still do nothing but sleep, eat food paid for by other people, and enjoy the warmth of a house to which he contributes nothing. No drug or prescription will change the fact that there is nothing and no one waiting for him outside these walls.

 

* * *

 

Time has never felt so slow. It’s late-January now. As a teenager, he got angry when he realized that time was speeding up; but now he wishes that it would resume its relentless pace. Based on the evidence, happiness and the speed of time seem to bear a direct correlation.

 

* * *

 

He no longer gets worked up worrying about Al anymore. If he’s dead, he’ll kill himself when the news arrives. It’s as simple as that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave you on such a depressing note!  
> I hope I made it clear enough in earlier chapters that Ed was already on track for a depressive episode before Roy entered the picture. Although that situation certainly exacerbated it.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh.... we're almost there! I'm hoping to finish this story by the end of November as a mini NaNoWriMo, but as the title says...

He only slept for two hours last night, and three the night before. It was past one in the morning the last time he checked the clock. His brow and back are coated in sweat, but his fingers and toes feel cold as ice. The chemicals in his brain are ebbing and cresting, sending conflicted signals to his extremities. They’re shooting up his spine, seeping across his frontal cortex, and evoking that confused burning sensation of immersing your hand in ice.

When he shuts his eyes, it feels like he’s lying prone in the white void surrounding his Portal of Truth. He’s crumpled on the ground with his back to the gate, which has been torn apart and rebuilt sans the tree bearing those idiotically subjective words.

A million hands are pounding at the gate. Every terrifying thing in the world is hovering around the edges of his consciousness, like germs searching for a shallow cut in his skin. The sound is deafening. Angry, violent voices without proper language echoing in the emptiness.

He tries to keep his eyes open to remind himself that he’s safe in his bedroom. But then a shadow will flicker across the wall, or a pipe will groan, and he’ll clench his eyes tight and return to the white void in his head where he's trying to keep his gate shut tight despite the cracks that are beginning to creep up the stone.

There were sleepless nights after he lost his limbs. Those nights returned when he was recovering from surgery. The morphine they gave him was never sufficient. The pain was so strong it stripped away all vestiges of his identity. Eventually, sleep deprivation would force him into semi-consciousness, where he was plagued with lucid dreams in which the pain never subsided.

At least back then he knew that the agony would pass. It was temporary and material. There was a future laid out in front of him that was free of pain.

This condition is not temporary. There’s no cure for it. There’s no resolution. Life will only grow more taxing as he ages. He’ll live in fear of every insignificant problem, panic at the slightest conflict, shelter himself in a state of catatonia when he can’t handle the bare minimum for functionality. The problems will continue amassing like the tumors he still suspects are growing in his brain.

This poison will never leave his system. This is a terminal condition still festering in the early stages.

Pinako and Winry store morphine tablets in the supply closet downstairs. They buy them in bulk by the kilo from a pharmaceutical supplier in East City. They wouldn’t notice if a few went missing. They probably wouldn’t notice if fifty went missing.

They’re both asleep now. He could creep downstairs, grab a handful, and sneak back up. He could lock the door and swallow them until he loses track of how many. Sometimes he doesn’t emerge from his room until late afternoon. They probably wouldn’t be suspicious of his absence until it was far too late.

It wouldn’t be a reliable method though. The human body can handle an extreme amount of morphine before suffering a lethal overdose. He’d more likely vomit before his body absorbed enough of the drug to halt his breathing.

There’s stronger medication in this house: anesthesia that they use for surgery. He could find a clean syringe and inject it straight into his veins. That would almost certainly stop his heart.

A gust of wind blows against the windowpane. His eyes shoot open, darting around the room manically, scared out of his wits that there’s some evil lurking in the shadows.

It hurts so badly. Everything hurts. If he closes his eyes, he’ll just return to that desolate white plane full of enemies pounding at the gate.

He’s been contemplating suicide for months now. Clinging to it like a life raft, finding comfort in the knowledge that he always has one guaranteed escape route.

It’s not a vague concept anymore. It’s tactile and compelling. It feels like an itch demanding to be scratched, similar to those handful of days when he wanted nothing more than to tear off his own leg.

He wants to die. And the most terrifying aspect is that there’s nothing stopping him. The only existing barrier between life and death is his own self-control and restraint.

He doesn’t believe in an afterlife. He’ll simply return to the nothingness from which he originated. There will be no shame or guilt for the people he left behind. Of course he’s terrified by the prospect of simply disappearing; but then he realizes that it will be no different than returning to the state of existence he dwelt in before conception. From that perspective, death doesn’t sound too horrifying.

He pushes himself onto his elbows, and immediately has to lie back down from the head rush that sends him spiraling. Once the vertigo passes, he crawls onto the floor. His stomach is full of acid and his chest feels tight.

His eyes lock onto the door. Forcing himself to his feet, he starts walking. The wood beneath him seems to silently vanish into another plane of reality.

Putting a hand against the wall for support, he staggers down the hall. Something sharp spasms beneath his ribs, and he presses against the pain as if he could staunch it like a bleeding wound. He doesn’t bother knocking when he reaches Winry’s door.

She stirs in bed when he enters the room. He knows that he should wait for her to regain consciousness. She’s probably terrified, and at the very least he should give her the chance to register his presence. But his brain is on fire and he’s scared that there’s something prowling behind him in the darkness.

“Ed?” she asks groggily, right before he pulls back the covers and collapses into the bed next to her. He wraps an arm around her back, burying his head beneath her chin, panting like he just sprinted for his life.

He’s safe now. She won’t let him leave. Her form will keep him safe.

It’s pure nonsense. Even as he child, he never believed in the magical protection of a loved one’s embrace; yet he still crawled into his mother’s bed after a nightmare. He knew that the monsters in his dreams weren’t real, and even if they were, a blanket and his mother’s arms could never keep them at bay.

He needs to revert to the mentality of a normal child. He has to trick his brain into believing that Winry will make things better. She’s his placebo. If he can convince himself that she’ll keep him safe, then his psyche should respond accordingly.

She reaches an arm around his back to lock him into place. His breathing steadily starts to even out as he matches its pace with her own. The last time he touched her skin was two weeks ago when she trimmed his split ends and her fingers occasionally brushed against his neck.

Being pressed against her is almost like floating underwater: devoid of sound, weightless buoyancy, a complete sense of safety despite the fact that your lungs are starting to burn from lack of oxygen.

Suddenly, he’s consumed with fear that she might interpret this action as romantic. It’s unlikely, but he can’t be certain.

He can’t spend the night in her arms if there’s even a remote chance that she thinks this is something that it’s not. He can’t do that to her, and he can’t afford to burden himself with another layer of guilt.

“Winry, you know I’m gay, right?”

The words sound absolutely ridiculous given the circumstances. He’s barely spoken in days, and this is the mess he drags into her bedroom.

She just clenches him a bit tighter.

“I had a suspicion, but thank you for telling me.”

He exhales in relief. He’s not surprised, but it’s comforting to have confirmation. At least now there’s one less person in the world who he needs to tell.

“Is that what’s been bothering you so much lately?” she asks. “Were you worried how I would react?”

“No, it’s something else.”

He really shouldn’t tell her about Mustang. If he does, then she’ll conceal her judgment because she knows that he’s too fragile to handle any degree of shame. The distress and disgust will still be there though, carefully hidden until she can’t restrain herself any longer.

“I made a mistake. A really big mistake.” He decides to settle for vagueness.

“Well, you still have three intact limbs, so it couldn’t have been all that bad.”

She playfully kicks his shin, and he laughs lightly into her chest.

“I got involved with someone I shouldn’t have. Someone who I knew it wasn’t going to work with.”

He keeps his face hidden beneath her chin, like a child afraid to see the disappointment in their parent’s face.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, it’s not like that. He just doesn’t want me. The thing is, I knew it could never work, and I still went after him anyway. I’m so fucking stupid.”

“Was it someone you met in Creta?”

“No.”

He has to tell her the truth. He has to tell her because there’s no one else who can ever know, not even his brother.

“You remember Colonel Mustang, right?”

Of course she does. It’s a stupid rhetorical.

“Yes.”

“See how fucking stupid I am? Of course it was never going to work.”

“How long were you two together?”

“About a day and a half.”

“Oh thank god,” she says rapidly as he feels a mass of tension escape her body. “Sorry, not to minimize your pain, but I got really freaked out for a second that it was going on when you were a kid.”

He recoils a bit, but in all honesty, her initial assumption isn’t all that shocking. His behavior would make significantly more sense if that were the case.

“No, it was just the week I was in Central. But I liked him long before that. It’s not just him though.”

“It’s everything, right? Everything and nothing?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, feeling the sweat building on her collarbone from the moisture in his breath.

“I don’t know how to make it stop,” he whimpers. “I’m so fucking terrified that it won’t.”

“It will.” She strokes his tangled hair. “Our patients go through depressive periods like this all the time, and they’re always terrified that it’s never going to end. But it always does. It usually comes back at some point though, so we’re going to do everything we can to prevent that, okay?”

It’s an empty promise. Even if he does get better, the trauma will assuredly resurface. Maybe it can be delayed with drugs and therapy, but the natural hardships of life will inevitably trigger a relapse. This is just his reality. It’s his new normal.

“I have some good news that might make you feel better,” she says while continuing to stroke his hair. “Al’s coming home in about two weeks.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he wrote you a letter too, but it must just be a bit behind mine. He said that this is the best time to make the trip anyway since the desert is at its coolest. Right now, he has a tentative arrival date of February 16th.”

He quickly does the mental math. The first letter he wrote Al was mailed in late November, which means that he probably received it in late December. It’s a three-week journey between Risembool and the Capital, which means that Al must have made the decision to leave not long after his letter arrived.

Or Winry’s letter.

“Did you tell him about me?” he asks.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t too specific. Honestly, I don’t think I had much influence in his decision though. The first letter you wrote him kind of freaked him out.”

He barely remembers the content of that letter. It was around the time that his mania was starting to reach a fever pitch. He wrote each discarded draft in a near-schizophrenic state as he was afflicted with graphic images of Al’s corpse that were polluting his pen and paper. The longer the excruciating process dragged on, the more certain he became that he was writing to a ghost. In the end, the final product was probably an incomprehensible morbid mess.

“I was kind of freaking out when I wrote it. I don’t think my other letters are any better.”

After finishing the first one, he found that forcing himself into a state of disassociation was the only way to survive the process. Any normal person could probably detect the red flags in every word.

“Sorry for not asking,” she apologizes, “but I knew you’d get upset, and it felt irresponsible not to tell him.”

“It’s fine. Really, it is. I’m just scared that he’s upset about having to come back for me. He won’t say anything, but–”

“Don’t pretend for one second that you wouldn’t do the exact same for him. He loves you more than anyone or anything out in Xing. Nothing there is as important as you are.”

She’s right. Of course she is. He would drop everything for far less, yet he still finds it hard to believe that Al could ever love him that much.

He sighs, and nestles in deeper.

“I would have married you, y'know. Right now, I really wish I could.”

He’d be lying if he said that he never vaguely considered the possibility. After returning to Risembool two years ago, he found himself sick and tired of hardship. The prospect of facing a lifetime of oppression seemed daunting after all the suffering that was now safely trapped in his past.

He imagined repressing his baser desires for the stability of Winry’s companionship. A lifetime of bad sex and beautiful children with all the mundanities of married life.

It was never a serious consideration. He could never do something like that to her, or himself. It was just a dream that belonged in another world.

“Ed, don’t take this the wrong way, but you are very, _very_ gay.”

He lets out a noise that falls somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Yeah, I know. I hate it.”

 

* * *

 

It’s difficult to describe the change that takes place over the next couple of days.

He wakes up in Winry’s arms, and for a few sweet moments there’s nothing else inside his head. Then out of nowhere the weight of last night nearly knocks him to the floor.

He almost killed himself. He could be dead right now. He’s survived a million near-death experiences, but for some reason this one feels infinitely more tangible.

Throughout the rest of the day he makes a concentrated effort to eat. Even when his stomach starts protesting and his gag reflex is going haywire. He forces himself to continue taking tiny bites until it feels like he’s reached his necessary caloric intake.

Apart from that small victory, the rest of his day progresses like normal. He intermittently shifts between sleeping and dazing, but something about it feels different.

Normally he uses sleep purely as a means of escape. When he feels drunk on chemicals and staying awake means dwelling in a state of incapacitating misery. Now, the bad thoughts are still present, but they’re not so intense that he feels completely beyond distraction. And when he does drift off, he’s not tortured by the possibility that he might die in his sleep.

The changes continue slowly throughout the rest of the week. The chronic discomfort around his port seems to vanish. He opens up a book and is actually able to focus on the narrative. The sun sets and he’s bewildered by where all the time went.

He’s not sure if spending the night in Winry’s arms helped heal him in any significant way, or if this transition was already preprogrammed. Either way, it feels like his fever has finally broken.

The reprieve isn’t absolute. There are still moments of visceral depression that creep through he cracks, but he notices that they’re occurring less frequently, and their duration seems to shrink consistently.

At one point, he loses himself in a memory of Al, and realizes that it’s the first time in months that he’s been able to think about his brother without envisioning his death.

It’s almost like winter is finally transitioning into spring, even though the weather hasn’t improved in the slightest. If anything, it’s gotten worse. There’s still no snow, but the temperature has stagnated below freezing. Still, it's the warmest he's felt since autumn.

It’s not so much that he’s happy. It’s more like he’s gradually settling into a state of neutrality. Similar to how the initial pleasure of morphine doesn’t come from the high, but from the euphoric absence of pain.

A week after his night from hell, he pulls out the notes he took on the floor of Mustang’s library. He hasn’t even glanced at them since returning to Risembool. Now he’s determined to begin analyzing them because he feels like shit for wasting almost three months learning absolutely nothing.

Skimming back through the looseleaf pages, he realizes that they’re not as comprehensive as his memory led him to believe. He wrote down the logistics of the alphabet, some basic grammar points, and drew a rough sketch of his emblem with the translations. It’s not much to go on, but maybe he can order some reference books from East City. Despite being structurally more difficult than Cretan, learning Xerxian would probably be easier since he’d never have to speak it.

As he rewrites and attempts to memorize the alphabet, his mind inevitably wanders back to Mustang. He stopped reading the paper a while ago because it was stressing him out too much, so he has no idea what’s happening on the political front.

He considers writing him another letter. This time not begging for a response, but cursing him out for acting like a fucking teenage and cutting him off without even a courtesy note. Seriously, did he never fully develop object permanence? Does he think that people simply stop existing when they’re out of his sight? Ed may not deserve much, but at the very least he deserves one damn phone call.

“What have you got there?” Pinako says from behind, jolting him out of his angry internal rant.

“Just some notes from this old book that had some Xerxian in it.” He flashes the paper in her direction.

“Oh, what book was it?”

“I don’t know. I never wrote down the title, but it was almost five hundred years old. It had all this Xerxian alchemical and religious symbology in it.”

He doesn’t elaborate on the symbol laid out before him. That’s a very long conversation that he’s not in the mood to have.

Pinako takes a seat across from him at the dining room table.

“You know, your father told me and your mother a lot about Xerxes. Usually after a couple of drinks.”

His skin breaks out in goosebumps.

“What’d he tell you?”

For some reason, he assumed that Hohenheim kept all the details of his past a secret from his mother. The possibility that Pinako might be a potential repository never even crossed his mind.

“Oh, just bits and pieces. He liked to wax poetic about the music, these stringed instruments that don’t exist anymore. He said there were choirs of young women who watched over all the shrines in the city and sang every morning at dawn. He taught your mother a few songs, and she sang them to you when you were a baby. Do you remember?”

He frantically digs through his memory. There are vague recollections of distant tunes and harmonies, but he can’t extract any lyrics from the sound.

“No,” he says guiltily and shakes his head.

“That’s fine. She wrote most of them down. Follow me.”

She rises from her chair and begins walking towards the staircase. Ed dutifully follows her, his heart racing as she leads him upstairs. This is almost too good to be true. The fact that Pinako may still have some of his mother’s possessions is breathtakingly wonderful.

“Be a dear and pull down the ladder for me.”

She gestures up to the string hanging from the hatch door that leads into the attic. He had to jump for it as a kid, but now he’s tall enough to reach it without even straining on his toes.

He pulls down the hatch and unfolds the descending ladder. He’s only been up here a handful of times. Only when Pinako needed help carrying something down.

She begins climbing the ladder and he follows once she reaches the top.

It’s absolutely freezing up here. He flicks on the single lightbulb dangling from a string, and tries to steady it as it sways and casts disconcerting shadows on the clutter pressed up against the walls.

She goes into the far corner and pulls a thick, grey tarp off of a large wooden chest with metal reinforcements. With a key from her pocket, she unlatches the lock and pushes the lid up with a grunt.

Ed folds his arms across his chest to keep himself warm as he leans over to peer inside. Surprisingly, she doesn’t fish around for anything in particular. She just steps back and allows him to look.

“After you ran off to Central to get your state certification, Al told me that you suggested burning your house down if you passed. You should know better than to trust that boy with a secret.”

He nearly buckles to the floor when he realizes what’s in front of him. The light is dim, but the first thing that catches his eye is a stuffed rabbit laying on a stack of books.

His hand darts for it. The fur was once white, but now it’s almost completely grey. Al used to sleep with it every night until Ed shamed him into giving it up. He said that stuffed animals were too childish, and they weren’t children anymore.

Clutching the rabbit to his chest, he frenetically digs through the chest, not even latching on to anything in particular, just confirming that all of it is real.

“I didn’t save everything of course, but I took what seemed irreplaceable.”

He grabs a thick leather tome that’s so heavy it nearly slips out of his grasp. Crouching to his knees on the freezing floor, he opens it to a random page. It’s printed in Amestrian, but there are Xerxian inscriptions scattered throughout the margins.

He dives in again, this time pulling out a cloth notebook full of bookmarks. He flips it open, and briefly worries that he’s hallucinating when he sees pages upon pages of Xerxian text written in his father’s hand.

“Did you save all of the Xerxian stuff?” he asks, his voice trembling with excitement.

“At least what I could find.”

He descends back in and manically continues digging through the piles. He knows that it would be wiser to carry all of it downstairs where there’s warmth and light, but he can’t bring himself to look away for a second.

The chest is overflowing with Xerxian manuscripts and out-of-print books that are brimming with marginalia. Intermingled among the scholarly texts are small trinkets that he forgot existed until now: the little animal figurines they transmuted for their mother, the hand-embroidered blankets that she swaddled them in as babies, and the small wooden box containing a few of their baby teeth.

It’s indescribable. Laid out in front of him is the most valuable cache of Xerxian knowledge in the modern world, and yet he can’t help but cry over the little tokens that once seemed so insignificant, but now feel more precious than any ancient artifact.

“Did Winry help you with this?”

“No, I managed this all on my own. Didn’t want her blabbing and you throwing a tantrum.”

He laughs like he hasn’t laughed in months, then frantically begins scanning the attic for empty boxes that he can use to start carrying everything downstairs. By early evening, he has every book, toy, trinket, and charm neatly organized across his bedroom floor.

Like she said, it’s not everything. There are some items that he can’t find: small pieces of memorabilia that truly were reduced to ash. But this is more than he ever could have hoped for, so he does his best to avoid thinking about what's lacking.

He sleeps through the night with Al’s stuffed rabbit safely tucked against his chest. He sobs for a while as he strokes the delicate fur, full of shame that he forced Al to give up something so precious and harmless. He’ll apologize and give it back when he comes home.

Six more days give or take, then he’ll see his brother again.

He hasn’t felt this happy since the day they recovered Al’s body.

Once he cries all the tears he has left, he makes an important decision. Tomorrow he’s going to call Mustang. He doesn’t care if the switchboard girls eavesdrop on their conversation and chitter about it in the canteen. He’s going call and chew him out for this absolute bullshit he put him through. He’ll be polite and parse his words to avoid romantic implications, but he’ll get the message across loud and firm.

He’s not going to take anything for granted anymore, like those two years he spent in Risembool basking in time and wishing that the next chapter of his life would begin already. At the time, that heavenly period of peace seemed like nothing more than an intermediary state. Now it’s his ideal. It’s that degree of happiness and contentment that he needs to strive for, and that means forcefully cutting Mustang out of his life for good.

The next morning Pinako and Winry are called away on a house visit. He seizes the opportunity to dial the number he memorized months ago:

733-970.

“We have a lot of rain in August. The lake is far away from the crater. Buy a diamond at the base.”

It rings twice, then he’s greeted by a familiar female voice.

“Brigadier General Mustang’s office.”

“Riza?”

He’s never once called her by her first name, but he honestly can’t remember what her current rank is.

“Yes?”

“Hi, it’s Edward Elric.”

“Oh, hi Edward, how are you?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

He scrambles for something else to say. Her presence has completely thrown him off his game, even though he’s somewhat thankful that his inevitable confrontation with Mustang will be delayed a little longer.

“Um, I just wanted to call and see how Mustang’s doing. Sorry, I don’t have his home number.”

He realizes then that Roy has probably told her everything. She must know why he’s really calling. She knows what they did. His hands start sweating and his stomach twists.

“That’s alright. Sorry he’s not here at the moment. He’s on vacation leave for the full week, but I can give you his home number if you like.”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Just a sec.”

He quickly uncaps the closest pen and the lid skitters across the floor. He tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder as he prepares to write the number on the back of his hand.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

“Okay, it’s 1-883-0104.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Is he out of town? You said he was on vacation.”

“No, last I checked he’s just staying at home.”

He nervously fiddles with the phone cord.

“Um, I know it’s none of my business, but is he doing okay? He told you that I came to visit him last November, right?”

He feels like a very incompetent detective trying to subtly extract information from a suspect.

“Yes, he did. He said that you stayed with him for a couple of nights.”

It’s difficult to discern, but he swears that he can hear a hint of insinuation in her tone.

“Yeah, I did. Um, I was planning to come up to Central soon to take care of a couple other things. Do you think he’d mind if I stopped by to see him?”

Part of him hopes that she will tell him no. If she says that he’s really busy, or gives him a vague half-answer, then he’ll know that his presence is unwelcome.

“I think he’d like that. He could really use the company right now.”

Her reply catches him off guard. At the very least he expected a subtle warning or a cautious disclaimer. Now he’s second-guessing whether or not she really does know.

“Okay, good. Are you doing alright? I mean with Grumman passing and everything?”

There’s another question: did Roy tell her that he knows about their family history?

“I’m fine, thanks for asking. Everything’s a bit chaotic around here, as is to be expected. But listen, when you come up to Central, come stop by my place too. I’m still in the same apartment where you last came to see me.”

There’s something humbling about the fact that she just inherited the estate of the most powerful man in the country, and yet she’s still living in the same three-room apartment with the exposed piping and littered lobby.

On second thought, humility may be the wrong word. Repentance might be more accurate.

“Yeah, I’d love that, thanks. Um… sorry, I’m pretty out of the loop, what’s your rank again?”

She gives a small laugh.

“Captain.”

“Thanks, Captain. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye, Edward.”

“Bye.”

He hangs up the phone and immediately sucks in a deep breath. He replays her words in his head, trying to deduce how much she knows.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe Roy has managed to keep her in the dark. If that’s the case, then Roy is either truly unaffected, or a better actor than Ed has given him credit for.

There’s no time to stress about it now. Winry and Granny will probably be home soon, and he has no idea how long this call will last.

Even now, he’s desperate to find out that this was nothing more than a misunderstanding. The lonely, lovesick part of him is still hoping that Roy will pull some ingenious excuse out of his ass and entreat him to come running back like a dog.

He dials the number Hawkeye gave him, then holds his breath as it rings again and again. He wills himself into a trance, trying to stay calm so that Roy won’t hear the hurt and weakness in his voice.

The tone eventually cuts out. In a panic, he dials again.

Six rings, seven, eight–

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

The line goes silent. Roy knows exactly who it is.

“Hi.”

“Hi. How are you?”

“Not bad. Yourself?”

His grip on the receiver tightens.

“Fine.”

Suddenly, all of the insults and accusations he planned to throw his way feel pathetically insufficient over the disconnect of the phone. Roy doesn’t deserve to be let off that easy. This shouldn’t be a clean break. He nearly committed suicide over this man. Confronting him in person and shaming him into the dirt is the least that he deserves.

“Hey, can I come see you?”

Roy pauses, clearly caught off guard.

“When?”

“Thursday night,” he replies impulsively. Maybe too impulsively. He’ll have to take the train out tomorrow if he wants to make it to Central by then.

“Sure, that’d be fine.”

He hangs up. Loud and dramatic, he slams the phone into the cradle. With an angry grunt, he darts up the stairs and heads into the bathroom to turn on the shower. Beneath the scalding hot water his cries steadily transform into laughs, and then screams.

It’s therapeutic really, as the sorrow and fear he’s burdened himself with for months finally morphs into the righteous anger it should have been all along.

He’s unabashedly angry, and it’s such a relief.

He’s almost made it to the other side. This nightmare is going to end soon.

After returning to his bedroom, he gently removes the improvised envelope containing those eight strands of black hair from the neglected pocket of his suitcase. He carefully peers inside to make sure all the hairs are still present, and then he safely slides the envelope into the pathetic scrapbook he started compiling more than two years ago.

He learned his lesson. He’s not going to destroy any evidence of his past. No matter how painful the memories.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it this far! If any updates come up i'll try to post them on my tumblr, which is blissymbolics.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who added another chapter to this nonsense!  
> Not gonna lie, this chapter is pretty stressful, but please believe me when I say there's light at the end of the tunnel and things get much easier after this.

While he's packing up his suitcase, Winry slips into his room to give him a small bottle with a few tablets of valium. She tells him that the dose is moderately high and the effects fact-acting. They’re not intended for long-term use, just as an emergency precaution in case he starts having a panic attack on the train.

He refuses them at first, but then thinks better of it. This is his first excursion out into society after several months of hermitage. He honestly has no idea what type of bullshit his brain has in store for him.

Fortunately his day of travel passes smoothly. He sleeps, reads, and for his own mental wellbeing, actively refuses to think about Mustang. The lurch of the train rouses him from sleep, and when he looks out the window he sees the tall pillars and green banners of Central Station. Only now does he start to stress over the fact that he has no idea what he’s going to say.

Maybe he doesn’t need to say anything. He can barge in, demand an apology, then retreat to the safety of his hotel to cry it out until his train leaves tomorrow afternoon.

He finds comfort in the assurance that no matter how badly things go, no matter how awful he feels at the end of this, Al will be waiting for him when he gets home.

He hails a taxi and gives Mustang’s address. It’s about eight o’clock now, and the temperature is even colder than it is out east. Throughout the entire ride he strokes the smooth glass of the bottle in his pocket like a worry stone.

They pull up in front of Roy’s house. The living room lights are on and his car is parked out front, so at least he didn’t bail at the last minute.

He walks up the snow-covered steps and pounds on the door, but to his disappointment, the sound is muffled by his glove. The cold is aggravating his impatience, and after twenty seconds of no response he raises his hand again, only to hear the lock rattle on the inside. The door swings open, and there stands Roy, framed in the light of the entryway.

“You made it,” he says with a forced smile, as if Ed just arrived for a fucking dinner party.

“You made it to the door. I half-expected you to shut off all the lights and pretend you weren’t home.”

He meant to spit the vitriol straight into his eyes, but his gaze winds up darting around his figure, refusing to settle on any one spot.

“Nice to see you too.”

“Just invite me in.”

In lieu of an actual invitation, Roy just steps aside and allows him to pass through the threshold. Ed drops his suitcase onto the floor and doesn’t care if it dents the wood. His eyes wander around the space as he removes his coat.

The downstairs hallway doesn’t look much different from the last time he was here. There’s a dead lightbulb in the ceiling light, and a twinge of stale smoke in the air; but he can’t help but feel disappointed by the general orderliness. A vindictive part of him was hoping to find Mustang living in squalor.

He turns back to look at Roy, whose eyes anxiously flicker towards his suitcase.

“Relax, I’m not moving in. I just came straight from the station.”

He tosses his coat on top of his suitcase, effectively hiding it from view. Roy nods and flips the padlock shut.

The weight of the situation finally starts to settle in. After tonight, maybe within the next couple of minutes, things will really be over between them. Six years of silent adoration and a miserably short period of contentment. Even now, he’s holding out hope that Roy will divulge some unfathomably awful experience that will clarify everything. But he can’t afford to hold his breath.

“You look like shit,” Ed says. There’s no reason for it. It’s just an immature attempt to provoke a reaction.

“I feel like shit,” Roy replies while crossing his arms and staring down at his feet, still smiling forcefully.

“Are you going to apologize? Give me that and I’ll leave.”

Roy’s artificial smile tapers off.

“I wrote you a letter.”

Ed goes stone-still in horror. Panic shoots through him as he realizes that Roy did try to reach out to him after all. His letter must have gotten lost in the mail. He probably ended this months ago, and is hopelessly confused as to why Ed demanded a confrontation.

“I didn’t get it,” he states matter-of-factly, even though he’s overcome with embarrassment.

“That’s because I never sent it.”

Anger coils deep in his intestines. He clenches his jaw tight and glares daggers at Roy as he walks past him into the living room.

“Why not?”

Ed watches him pick up a sealed envelope from one of the end tables. He examines it closely, as if verifying the address that it will never be delivered to.

“Because, as soon as you read it, this will be over.”

He extends his arm in Ed’s direction while keeping his gaze downcast.

Ed hesitates. He knew this was inevitable, but now it’s beyond the realm of speculation. With a deep breath, he snatches the envelope from Roy’s grasp. The stamp is fixed in place and his address in Risembool is neatly inscribed. He wonders how many mornings Roy woke up with the intention of dropping it in his mailbox, and ended up procrastinating until it grew too late.

Across the room, the remnants of a fire are glowing in the hearth. He slowly walks over, his mind still struggling to process the object in front of him. It almost feels like the envelope contains terrible medical news: information that he might be happier not knowing.

He tosses it in the fire. The corners start to sizzle, and then the paper erupts into flames, curling in on itself and disintegrating into the coals. It’s petty and dramatic, and he wishes he could say that it was purely an act of spite and not willful denial.

“Say it to my face.”

He turns around to see Roy’s mask of indifference firmly in place. The action hurt him though. It must have.

“Dear Edward, I meant to write this a month ago – it was dated December 23rd.”

“I don’t care.”

In his world, the hours felt like days and the days felt like weeks. A delay of that nature felt longer than the slowest dream.

“Right.” He sits down on the couch and stares at the patterned carpet beneath his feet. “I meant to write this a month ago, but I delayed putting these thoughts into words because I was too weak to accept reality. You’ve probably inferred by now that I will be launching a campaign for Führer. You’re well-acquainted with sacrifice, and unfortunately, this is one I have to make.

“That does not excuse the fact that I should have told you sooner, but I selfishly abstained from letting you go because I didn’t want this to end. I wish I had a better excuse than that. I know I said that I didn’t want to cause you any harm or unhappiness, but now I most certainly have caused you both.

“I understand that if I had ended things sooner, then maybe we could have preserved some degree of friendship, but I don’t foresee you ever forgiving me for this offense.

“I’m sorry. Sincerely, Roy.”

He thought this part would be easy. He thought that he’d be the one in control. He still has nightmares about failing the State Alchemist Exam. They’re always identical and they fool him every single time. They’re defined by an excruciating sense of failure and shame that literally drives him to the floor in tears until he wakes up.

This experience feels almost exactly the same: a debilitating sense of rejection and failure, instead of the raw anger that it should be.

“That’s your excuse? Seriously?”

“It’s the truth.”

Ed waits for him to continue, but he offers nothing more.

“Fine.”

He storms across the room and down the hall.

“Where are you going?”

“The kitchen. I’ve barely eaten since yesterday. I’m fucking starving.”

He yanks open the refrigerator and curses between his teeth when he finds it woefully empty. He slams the door shut and begins rummaging through the cabinets, but they’re almost just as bare. In the very back of a cupboard he manages to find a half-eaten box of pasta, and decides that’s as good as it’s going to get.

The sink is piled up with dishes and the only suitable pot is sitting dirty on the stove. He begrudgingly splashes some water inside and begins scrubbing it with a worn-out sponge. Meanwhile, he can feel Roy staring at him from the doorway.

He knows that he’s making a scene. It would be best to just take Roy’s half-assed apology, get the fuck out, and move on with his life.

But Roy told him that he didn’t want this to end. Even if that was nothing more than a lie meant to soften the blow, he’ll exploit any chance to salvage this, even if he ends up sabotaging himself along the way.

“Ed, that night on the porch, you promised that–”

“I promised I'd let you off the hook if touching me made you feel like a pedophile, but that doesn’t seem to be your issue.”

He violently twists the tap on and begins to fill the pot.

“No, you promised you’d accept my decision, no explanation required. Well, I gave you an explanation.”

He slams the pot down on the stove, causing some of the water to splash over the side. He grabs the box of matches sitting on the counter and ignites one while flicking on the gas.

“Fine, let’s play hypotheticals then. Suppose Grumman served out the last three years of his term. You’d definitely make a run for Führer then, right? Were you just planning to keep me in your closet and drop me when it came time to start picking campaign slogans?”

“In all honesty, I figured we’d be broken up long before then for one reason or another.”

“Why?” he asks, genuinely hurt and confused beyond comprehension.

“Because that’s usually what happens.”

“Then why’d you agree to start this shit in the first place?!” he tries to scream, but it comes out as a high-pitched wail.

“People enter relationships all the time with the expectation that they won’t be permanent.”

The clinical detachment in his voice is infuriating. He’s supposed to be reeling in shame. He’s supposed to be begging for forgiveness. Ed used to live and breathe unfiltered anger. Why can’t he summon it now when he needs it most?

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Roy sighs and takes a seat at the small wooden table. “No, it doesn’t, but we do it anyway because we’re lonely and flawed and have trained ourselves not to expect good things.”

“That sounds a lot like a you problem.”

Roy gives a small laugh. “I hate to pull the age card, but I can promise you that I’m not in the minority.”

Ed is sick and tired of getting unsolicited advice on adulthood. His eyes dart to the dishes piled in the sink as he feels a sudden urge to smash them to the ground. That’s what people do in these types of situations, right? They break things, throw tantrums, allow themselves to act like children.

But that kind of behavior would only vindicate Roy’s decision.

“I just don’t fucking get it. Why’d you even suggest this if you just planned on breaking up with me sooner rather than later?”

He has to cling on to that simple fact. This was Roy’s idea. Ed may have planted the seed, but Roy put forward the proposition.

“For the honest reason I said on the porch. Because I felt like I’d regret it down the line if I didn’t at the very least try. And for the record, I wasn’t certain that I’d break up with you. If anything, I figured it was more likely you’d break up with me.”

“Why?” That one word in no way encapsulates the depth of his confusion.

“Because I’m firmly rooted in my life and you’re not. Because you can do anything and go anywhere you want, which would eventually mean leaving me behind. Even if you had feelings for me, I never expected you to mold your entire life around mine.”

He would have. There’s no question. He would have moved to Central, arranged his schedule to Roy’s convenience, and followed him on whatever transfer or assignment the military sent his way. Would it be healthy? Of course not. But people will sacrifice an unhealthy degree of freedom for the sake of stability.

That was his thought process three months ago, but upon reconsideration, it's unnerving how willing he was to blindly submit himself.

“But you decided to end this as soon as you found out Grumman was dead, right? And you still fucking started that shit on the couch?”

He still has that card in his deck. The one crime that he has no obligation to offer forgiveness for.

“I’m sorry,” Roy says firmly. “I wasn’t in a very rational state of mind.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“You tried to transmute your mother five years after her death. Please excuse me if I was a bit irrational the day my father died.”

Ed bristles with anger that Roy would drag up his past like that. But the anger also manifests because he can’t in good conscience contradict him.

He wishes he could paint Roy as an irredeemable villain and accuse him of exploiting his vulnerability, but he knows that he has no right to cast himself as the victim.

In the midst of their contact, he barely cared about the fact that Roy’s father was dead. He knew that Roy was wallowing in grief and guilt, and that intimacy under those circumstances was bound to backfire. But he reciprocated and incited it anyway because he selfishly wanted it, and nothing outside of his own head seemed to matter.

The water is starting to boil. There are little bursts of air rising to the surface.

He hates this. He hates this so fucking much. He hates factoring empathy and compassion into something that’s supposed to be raw retribution. And he’s so fucking angry that Roy is explaining his feelings like a regular adult while he’s trying to resist the urge to smash everything in sight.

“So what, were you planning to cut me off right after it was over?”

“I wasn’t planning anything. Honestly, there was nothing inside my head except that I was miserable and wanted you closer.”

“You let me suck your cock.”

Finally, he manages to provoke a reaction. Roy goes rigid and a flush reaches his face.

“And afterwards I felt so guilty that I sent you upstairs so I could have a panic attack in the basement.”

Ed wishes he could remain unaffected by that admission. He wishes that this gnawing empathy would just go away.

Roy continues, “After that, I was going to tell you that things had to end, but… I just wanted to sleep next to you. I hadn’t slept next to another person in a very long time.”

“I never had. Not before that.”

For the first time this evening, Roy raises his head to look him straight in the eye.

“I’m sorry.”

Ed hates how fucking sincere he sounds.

The water has reached a boil by now. Ed quickly dumps in the remaining pasta in the box, uncaring that he forgot to salt the water or that the portion size he poured is way more than he can consume.

He vaguely recalls a purpose in coming here. The plan was to guilt Roy into an apology, make him feel like shit, then leave. He should’ve known that plan was doomed from the start. Now he’s reeling with regret that he didn’t just end this over the phone. For some reason, he thought doing it in person would be more satisfying since he could trap Roy in his own home.

But who is he kidding? He came in the hope that he could convince him to change his mind. As if he was really that important. As if he was beautiful enough to compel someone to risk all of their dreams and ambitions for the privilege of his company.

He really hasn’t learned a damn thing from this experience.

“After getting back to Risembool, I fell into a really bad place. That’s an understatement really. It was the most miserable period of my entire life. I was one bad night away from killing myself.”

He knows that it’s cruel and vindictive to put something like that on Roy, but he’d be lying if he said that the look of shock and remorse on his face didn’t give him a glimmer of satisfaction.

“I don’t know what to say,” Roy whispers.

Ed hastily wipes away the moisture building in his eyes.

“It’s just…” he chokes his breath to keep back the sobs, “I have a hard time believing that you wanted to cling on to this so badly that you delayed breaking up with me until I showed up on your doorstep.”

“I do want this,” Roy states firmly, and like an absolute idiot, Ed believes him.

“Seriously, I do,” he goes on. “If it was an easy decision I wouldn’t have put it off this long. I would go to bed completely certain, have dreams about you, and wake up more confused than ever.”

While confessing this, he stands up from the table and walks over to where Ed is leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.

“Then why didn’t you call and fucking tell me that?”

“Because it felt cruel to give you hope.”

Roy places his hands on his upper-arms and begins to rub them through the fabric of his shirt. Doesn't he realize that this is just as cruel? He already told him that this is never going to happen. Why the fuck is he touching him?

“Ed, I’ve spent the last couple of months trying to think of a way to make this work, but I’ve got nothing. If you have any suggestions, please share.”

What kind of stupid request is that? Of course he doesn’t have any practical solutions. There aren’t any.

No, he can’t let himself think that way. He managed to figure out how to pull his brother out of the void between worlds. This problem should be simple by comparison. They’re just dealing with the laws of man, not physics or reality. If they both want it, then there has to be a way.

“You really want to be Führer?”

It’s a stupid question, but he needs confirmation so that he can figure out a plan from there.

To his surprise, Roy doesn’t immediately respond. He draws his hands away and retreats back to his seat at the table.

“I made promises to other people too. There were a lot of allies who supported us during the Promised Day on the assurance that Grumman or I would take control in the aftermath. I made promises to Riza a decade ago after we got back from Ishval. And Hughes, Dr. Marcoh, everyone. But in another lifetime, no, it wouldn’t be my top career choice.”

Ed really needs to stop getting caught off guard by the fact that he’s not the most important person in Roy’s life. He wishes he could accuse him of acting out of pure self-interest, but he knows better than anyone the all-encompassing effects of guilt. How it can compel your mind to attack itself like a virus convincing the immune system to destroy its own defenses. How it can twist your self-identity into something ugly and irredeemable.

He never realized just how unequal this relationship had the potential to be. Even though he has greater emotional investment, Roy has more to lose.

Worst case scenario, their relationship is publicly exposed: Ed retreats to the countryside until the noise dies down. Roy loses over a decade of painstaking work. A delicate pyramid of connections and favors built upon the guilt of a thousand incinerated corpses.

This relationship could destroy Roy’s entire life. Whereas all Ed would lose is the respect of some people who he doesn’t give a shit about anyway.

Fuck, he hates this.

“Just so you know, I wouldn’t care about making this public. There are maybe like three people I’d want to tell, but beyond that, we could live and die with people thinking we were roommates for all I care.”

He flicks off the stove. The pasta is probably still very undercooked.

“What am I supposed to do? Transmute a tunnel so you can sneak into the Führer’s mansion every night?”

“My teacher managed to dig a tunnel under the Armstrong manor easy enough.”

Roy laughs softly. “It’d still get out eventually. These things always do.”

They fall into a tense silence. To fill the void, Ed starts opening cabinets until he finds a strainer. He drains the pasta even though he has no intention of eating it. His hunger is bordering on painful, but he’s genuinely afraid that he won’t be able to keep it down. Instead, he abandons it and walks over to the table to take the seat across from Roy.

He should just leave. He got his apology and his closure. There’s nothing left for him here. He feels cornered, caged in, itching for something to fight, but there are no tangible enemies.

“You owe me for this. You fucked me up so badly.”

Based on Roy’s expression, that was very much the wrong thing to say.

“You’re the one who confessed to me in the first place. Did you make that decision based on logic? No. Sometimes we do and say things because we’re human and our emotions get the best of us. It’s confusing, and messy, but sometimes that’s just how it is.”

Ed has always hated that simple truth. Some part of him still refuses to accept the obvious reality that adults are just as clueless as kids. That the world is strung together by a patchwork of fragile, emotive people constantly making mistakes and hurting each other because they let their feelings dictate their actions. He supposes he has to accept it now since he's become one of them.

“The Führership is only a five-year appointment. Even after that, there’s no chance?”

“I’m not going to retire in my late thirties.”

“But if we waited until after you were out of office, then you wouldn’t have anything to lose.”

“Except my professional life.”

“So it really is all about your reputation?”

“In a democracy it has to be.”

This is a zero-sum argument. There’s absolutely nothing he can say that will convince Roy to abandon his quest for the Führership. He shouldn’t even be trying to dissuade him from it in the first place. It was a promise he forced on him when he borrowed those 520 cenz.

It suddenly occurs to him that throughout this entire ordeal he hasn’t spared a single thought for the good of the country as a whole. Mustang may be flawed, indignant, and overly self-confident, but he knows how to navigate politics, and he may be one of the precious few high-ranking officials who genuinely wants to make life better for the greatest common denominator.

He can help Ishval regain its independence. He can expand civil liberties and further curb censorship. Maybe he can even push forward legislation that will help Ed live his life with marginally less discrimination.

That’s the type of progress Roy would be risking in taking a male partner. And yet Ed is going to keep banging against this brick wall until it leaves him broken.

“Your professional life survived a coup.”

“Yes, it did. But the alternative was allowing the physical embodiment of evil to destroy the entire world. I think it’s safe to say that we were all prepared to die for that cause. But this isn’t that.”

No, of course it isn’t. Even though the chemicals in his brain are feverishly trying to convince him that it is.

“You knew that your mother’s identity was going to be revealed eventually, and you still pushed yourself into the limelight on the gamble that you could spin enough PR bullshit that people wouldn’t care.”

“People tend to be more forgiving of things you had no control over.”

“You were in control when you burned people alive in Ishval. You were in control when you helped commit genocide. The public knows this, and they’ve chosen to overlook it. Do you really think dating men will be the final straw? Do you honestly think that sleeping with me is worse than murder?”

There’s nothing redeemable in his words. They’re brutally honest, but it’s nothing that Roy doesn’t already know. His mistakes in Ishval are what drove him down this path. They’re the foundation for every decision and gamble. They’re the regrets he’s going to carry until his last breath.

There’s no purpose in shooting him point blank, apart from a childish desire to make him suffer pain worse than his own. It’s a recognition that he’s never going to get what he wants, so he will resort to burning the fields and salting the earth so that nothing can ever grow again.

Two tears pitter against the tabletop. His eyes well-up and his throat aches from the shame swallowing him whole. He looks up, only to have his worst nightmare confirmed. There are tears sliding down Roy’s otherwise stoic façade. Every shred of anger in Ed’s body evaporates instantaneously as his baser instincts take over: soothe, comfort, make it better.

“Fuck, Roy, I’m sorry.”

Roy just buries his face in his hand as a stifled sob breaks through. Ed frantically drags his chair over to sit by his side. Another sob tears through his throat, and the sound sends an electric shock straight to Ed’s heart. Like a parent seeing their child in pain, everything else in the world fades into obscurity.

“I shouldn’t have said that. That was fucked up, I’m sorry.” He takes Roy’s free hand and grasps it tight as he kisses his fingers, just as his mother did for him when he was upset. Then he presses Roy’s hand against his eyes so he can feel the evidence of his remorse.

“I got my eyesight back,” Roy sobs. “I didn’t deserve it. Everyone fucking knows it. Some days it gets so bad I just want to claw them out.”

For a moment it seems like he’s prepared to make good on that statement, as he firmly presses his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids.

Roy continues, his voice fragile and clipped, “I spent two years in Ishval coordinating the restoration effort. I only came back because I thought I could do more good on the legislative side. When I left, I promised that I’d help. That I’d do everything in my power to make things better. I can’t fuck up now. I have to become Führer. Whatever it takes, I have to.”

Ed is no stranger to guilt and self-loathing. He’s martyred himself multiple times in the hope of alleviating those very burdens. Still, he knows that their situations are incomparable. He knows that the guilt he felt for his brother is woefully insignificant compared to what Roy has to endure. When all is said and done, can he really blame Roy for sacrificing a potential lover for the sake of improving the lives of millions?

No. He can't. And yet, he’s also terrified that this quest for redemption will leave Roy with far less than he bargained for.

“From personal experience, sacrifice is never as satisfying as you think it’s going to be. You expect it to give you some sort of inner peace, or moral high ground, but usually all that ends up happening is you now have one less thing than you did before. That’s usually what happens when you sacrifice things out of obligation rather than necessity.”

He’s not sure where these words are coming from, but it feels like they’ve been lying dormant for a very long time.

“I burned my house down because I thought it was a sacrifice I needed to make. I believed in equivalent exchange so much that I thought I could just barter my suffering. Believe me, I get it, you think that giving up everything now means it has to pay off later down the line, and you just keep sacrificing because you’re convinced the more you lose the more you’ll get back. The logic seems so infallible until you realize that you’re not the center of the fucking universe.”

Roy gives a small laugh, and Ed beams when he notices that his breathing seems to be evening out. He continues rubbing his hand, entreating the pain to leave his body.

“I’m not saying you need to abandon any of your ideals. Just that making yourself miserable won’t insure the happiness of others."

Roy makes a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Fullmetal, why did you have to show up out of the blue and make me feel so many things?”

“I tend to have that effect on people.”

They sit there in silence for a while longer. Roy continues crying softly until it seems like the storm has passed. Meanwhile, Ed is still floating somewhere in the ether. Now that he finally has a moment of quiet, his brain can’t seem to shut the fuck up. The tension in Roy’s body is steadily draining away, while his own is only coiling tighter.

The nervous energy seems to dilate with every breath, and his eyes bulge in horror as he realizes that he may be closing in on a panic attack. This realization only antagonizes his mounting anxiety. His forehead breaks out in a cold sweat and he can feel his heart hammering dangerously fast.

He can’t fall apart. Not now. He has to get this under control. He’s so fucking terrified that it’s taking all of his mental energy just to keep his breathing discreet and steady.

“Sorry, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Okay,” Roy replies, somewhat confused as he tries to leave the kitchen as calmly as possible and retreat to the small bathroom underneath the stairs. After locking the door, he pulls the small glass bottle out of his pocket and shakes one of the white tablets into his palm.

He pops it into his mouth and cups his hands full of water. It takes a few tries before he can successfully swallow it, then he turns off the tap and takes a few steadying breaths.

His body tends to react to pills quickly. He just needs to keep his thoughts calm and hold himself together until the effects set in.

A cough rattles his chest, and he clears his throat to dispel the phlegm. There’s an itch growing that doesn’t want to relax.

Suddenly, he feels a tightening sensation building in his throat, and he realizes that the pill might be stuck. He turns the tap on again and drinks from it directly, but as soon as the water hits the back of his throat, he coughs it straight back up.

He desperately tries to swallow a few drops, and horror sets in when he realizes that he can’t.

The pill isn’t stuck. His throat is just swelling shut.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

He rocks against the edges of the sink and tries to assess the situation. As an experiment, he breathes through his mouth, and finds that he can inhale a decent amount of air, even if it’s strained. Next, he breathes through his nose and finds no obstruction.

That’s good. That means it’s just his esophagus and not his trachea, which means that he’s not suffering from anaphylactic shock.

He’ll be fine. It’s just an allergic reaction. But the swelling is slowly growing worse, and he has no idea how bad it will get.

He gulps, and discovers that he can’t swallow his own spit.

Fuck.

Of course this is happening now. Of all the times and places, he can’t catch one fucking break.

On the bright side, in a very roundabout way his sense of urgency has sobered him into a state of calm rationality. Or maybe that’s a bad thing since a large dose of adrenaline is exactly what he needs right now to counteract the swelling. But that’s just his fucking luck.

He takes one more deep breath, straightens out his hair, then steps back out into the kitchen.

Roy is still sitting right where he left him. He glances up when he enters and wipes his nose on his sleeve. His eyes are ringed with red and he looks so exhausted that Ed feels bad for how hysterically inconvenienced he’s about to be.

“I need to go to the hospital.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I'm aware that you can't have an allergic reaction to something the first time you're exposed to it. I'm messing with the medical accuracy a bit.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a shocking turn of events, this chapter actually turned out shorter than I intended. Hope you like it!

“This is bullshit.”

“I concur.”

“Seriously, this is absolute fucking bullshit. I’ve survived double amputation, impalement, all the shitty assignments you threw my way, but a stupid dose of valium is what does me in.”

He dramatically bangs the back of his head against the pillow. His arm is starting to ache from the injections, and the weird angle of the bed is giving him a crick in his back. At least they didn’t force him to change into a hospital gown. There’s something strangely satisfying about lounging in a hospital bed fully clothed in his regular attire.

“I guess no one warned you that developing random allergies is also a fun component of adulthood.”

Roy is sitting beside him in what looks to be a horribly uncomfortable chair. He keeps shifting positions and adjusting his legs. At this point it feels like common courtesy to ask if he wants to switch places.

“What was your surprise allergy?” he asks instead.

“Penicillin.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. I left my doctor’s office with a mild ear infection and came back with my whole body covered in hives.”

“Damn, living life inside a body sucks.”

“Again, I concur.”

Ed spent the entire drive to the hospital in an uninterrupted state of chatter. He quickly ran out of things to say about his own life, and switched to talking about Al’s instead. He repeated verbatim details he remembered from his letters and hey, he’s coming home in a few days, isn’t that great?

His intent was to keep Roy calm by demonstrating that his breathing was still functional. He continued talking even as his voice grew progressively weaker and his inhales painful and strained.

Fortunately, the reaction itself wasn’t too serious. A shot of adrenaline and an antihistamine quickly resolved the swelling, and they gave him a dose of steroids just for good measure. The doctor dropped in a while ago to tell them that everything looked fine and they were all set to be discharged.

That was over an hour ago. It’s almost midnight now, and there’s no telling how much longer they’ll be stuck here.

They managed to snag a private room since the urgent care facilities were nearly deserted when they first arrived. Unfortunately, the staff seem to be occupied with some fresh emergency, at least based on the cacophony of stretcher wheels and loud imperatives they heard passing in the hallway not too long ago. They may not be discharged until someone needs to kick them out and co-opt the room.

It’s strange to think that he seriously considered committing suicide little more than a week ago. Then out of nowhere, the universe gave him the opportunity to walk straight into death, and he fought back without a second thought.

Maybe that’s a bit overdramatic. The swelling probably would have resolved naturally before it completely obstructed his breathing, but the sentiment is still there.

He’ll blame Winry for this when he gets back. She’ll probably find it hilarious.

Ed explained the situation to Roy while they were tying up their shoes, and then he repeated it at least five more times after their arrival.

That’s one thing about hospitals that never fails to frustrate him: how they make you repeat your story over and over again, as if not a single goddamn physician knows how to use a clipboard.

 _They do that as a test to see if you can keep your story straight,_ Roy mentioned after he complained about it.

Ed supposes that’s fair. If he _was_ trying to get high off of valium, he’d probably confess after the fourth inquiry out of sheer annoyance.

The little glass bottle containing the tablets is sitting innocuously next to some other medical supplies on the table behind Roy, who hasn’t brought it up yet even though they’re approaching their third hour of forced proximity.

“You’re wondering why I have valium in my pocket, right?”

Roy glances back towards the bottle and shrugs.

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

“It’s fine. Winry gave it to me just in case.”

He keeps his words intentionally vague. He really doesn’t want to give a rundown of his mental health right now. Not when he’s stuck in a building that has corpses in the basement.

“Does she know about us?” Roy asks.

“A bit, yeah.”

Roy leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. For a moment, Ed wonders if that information upset him.

“I’m sorry,” Roy says, to his surprise. What did he just say that might warrant an apology?

“Before you left,” he continues, “I could tell that you were struggling. But I ignored the signs because I didn’t want to deal with it. I’m sorry, I should have checked in with you.”

“It’s fine. I don’t think I can judge since I wasn’t any better. Your father just died, and all I could think about was how it affected me. And I’m not expecting forgiveness for what I said earlier. I was upset, and just said the worst thing I could think of.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like those exact thoughts weren’t already in my head. And hey, I really am sorry about not responding to your letters. I truly have no excuse.”

“It’s okay. Besides, I think we’ve passed our quota for apologies at this point.”

“That’s fair.”

A stir of voices passes by their door, accompanied by the sound of screeching wheels. The staff are probably transporting someone who has it far worse than him right now.

It’s funny how hospitals always force you to reassess your priorities. It’s never a pleasant experience, but he always manages to leave with a shift in perspective.

Hospitals make you forget about all of the petty shit in your life. All the stupid nuisances that somehow manage to ruin your day. Hospitalization always leaves him bitter towards his past self for not appreciating how good he had it. Now he’s lying in a sterilized room, pumped full of drugs, eager to return to the outside world and all its trivial inconveniences.

It’s amazing how quickly the brain can reorient itself when survival takes precedence. Just a few hours ago, Roy was the center of his universe. Entering his home felt like walking onto a battlefield. He didn’t come with the intent of having a conversation. It was just a fight he needed to win. Somehow, he managed to convince himself that losing Roy was a cataclysmic event that would reverberate throughout the rest of his life.

As soon as his throat started to swell, Roy completely fell off his radar. Within seconds his priorities snapped like elastic. Romance and revenge instantly became stupid, childish concerns. Self-preservation was the only thing that mattered.

Now he’s here. Alive, safe, and stewing in embarrassment for how dramatic he was acting earlier in the evening.

They spent less than a week in each other’s company. They technically dated for two days. Yet he lashed out at Roy as if he was walking out on a ten-year marriage with two kids. All Roy promised him was casual dating, and he somehow twisted it into a steadfast commitment.

To a certain extent he knows that it’s not entirely his fault since his brain chemistry hasn’t been very cooperative as of late, but he still feels guilty for dropping all of his baggage at Roy’s feet and expecting him to help him carry it.

He’s still too proud to admit any of this out loud, but it’s eating him up on the inside.

“Hey,” Roy says after a stretch of silence, “there’s something else that I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Ed looks at him expectantly, intrigued by the nervous stutter in his voice.

“I wanted to tell you that I lied to you about something that first night at the bar. I only said that I used to date men because I wanted to be empathetic. I’ve never actually dated men before. You’re actually the first man I’ve ever kissed.”

Of all the potential possibilities that sprung to mind, that one definitely wasn’t on his list. He’s not even sure how he’s supposed to respond to that admission. The thought that Roy has had no sexual experience with men beyond what they've shared seems counterintuitive to how this is supposed to work.

Does this mean that he doesn’t actually like men at all? Was it just a spur of the moment white lie that spiraled out of control? Or maybe he thought that he liked men, but their relationship proved him wrong.

There are so many questions in his head, but none of them feel appropriate to ask.

There’s a slight flush on Roy’s cheeks. He seems to be waiting for a response, but when Ed offers none, he continues.

“I’ve been with a lot of women. Maybe more than a hundred. And I’ve never fallen in love with any of them. I know I have a reputation for sleeping around. And it’s true. But the reason I do it is because every time I’m with a woman, I’m hoping that there will be something there. But there never is. And I don’t think there can be.”

Time seems to slow down as he realizes what Roy is confessing.

He looks terrified to be exposing this part of himself, and Ed can tell that he’s never spoken these thoughts aloud before.

Ed can’t remember the exact moment when he realized that he never wanted to have sex with a woman. There must have been a moment, but he can’t even triangulate a month or season.

He was certainly lucky in that regard. His own journey was undoubtedly far easier than what the average person experiences. Somehow, he managed to skirt by all of the confusion, shame, experimentation, and regret, and make it to adulthood without a hint of doubt.

Sure, his sexual encounters up until now haven’t exactly been euphoric, but at least he’s never experienced self-loathing for this one particular facet of his identity. For some reason, he always assumed that Roy’s experience was similar.

To be thirty-three and still searching for answers… to have made himself intimately vulnerable to a hundred people in the hope of finding a connection with just one, only to realize that it was all wasted time and spent emotion…

Ed knows that he’s not at fault since he didn’t know, but he still feels guilty for throwing so much at Roy after pushing him headfirst into a personal crisis. He probably had very little excess emotion to spare on anyone else.

Still, he can’t help but feel a simmer of pride at the thought that he was Roy’s first.

“So what you’re saying is… I was such a good lay I gave you a sexual identity crisis.”

Roy laughs. “I mean, it’s been on my mind for a while, but yeah, our encounter pretty much confirmed it.”

That would explain why Roy was so shaken after getting him off on the couch. The way he fell into a trance while staring at the cum smeared across his hand. That was his first time bringing another man to climax. It was probably his first time touching a cock that was not his own. Ed’s surprised that dealing with that on top of the death of his father didn’t completely shut him down.

“Have you been dealing with this all on your own? Have you talked to Hawkeye about it?”

“No. I haven’t told her anything about what happened between us.”

“Why not?”

“Two decades of repressed shame and self-loathing.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it.”

Roy scoots his chair closer to the bed, and Ed rolls onto his side so that he doesn’t have to twist his neck anymore. He desperately wants to grab Roy’s hand. He wants to blow warmth into his fingers and tell him that everything will be okay. But it looks like Roy has more to say.

“But does that help provide some context for why I was so torn up about breaking things off with you? Because letting you go didn’t just mean losing you as an individual. It meant never having anyone like you.”

“You mean a man,” he replies bluntly.

“Yes, thank you for the clarification,” Roy says sarcastically.

Ed is itching to touch him somewhere. His hand, his hair, his knee, anywhere. But he’s too nervous that someone on staff might walk in on them.

“Were you really prepared to go the rest of your life faking it with women?” he asks, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.

“Many men before me have done the same. It was a pretty brutal epiphany though. I’ve been aware of my attraction to men for a long time, but I always ignored it. Eventually it just became background static. I figured it didn’t even matter since I was bound to stumble across the right woman sooner or later. It kind of turned my world upside down when I realized that was never going to happen.”

That must have been an ordeal. To realize as a full-grown adult that you’re trapped with only three options: face a lifetime of oppression, resign yourself to loneliness, or try to fake it with someone you can never love. Roy has probably spent the last couple of months debating between the lesser of those three evils.

Ed still doesn’t know which path Roy has settled on, and he’s terrified to ask. If Roy is really committed to winning the election, then it has to be one of the last two.

“You’re still going to run for Führer though?”

“No. I’m going to throw my support behind someone else.”

Ed’s eyes go wide.

Roy can’t mean that. Not after everything he said in the kitchen. He was indecisive and confused about their relationship, but not about this.

It’s impossible for someone to have a change of heart that quickly.

It’s temporary. Hospitals make you say and do strange things.

He’s going to change his mind. Probably before morning.

“When did you decide that?”

“Around the time the nurse took your blood pressure.”

Was Roy looking at him when he made the decision? With his swollen neck, disheveled hair, spitting into a towel because he couldn’t swallow his own saliva? Is Roy going to remember that as a defining moment in his life?

“You sure you don’t want to sleep on it?” he asks cautiously.

“I’ve been sleeping on it for three months. Sleeping on it has been exhausting.”

“And you’re sure you’ll be okay with this decision in the long run?”

Why is he trying to instill doubt? He should be celebrating this decision, even actively encouraging him to drop out. Apart from his own selfish motivations, it would undoubtedly be the healthier option.

“There’s still time. There’s time for the world to change. Besides, what am I supposed to do with myself if I have nothing left to achieve after thirty-nine?”

“But if you wait to come out until after your term’s over, then at least you won’t have to worry about ruining your chances.”

Roy sighs and leans in closer.

“Honestly, I don’t think I can wait that long. Not to sound dramatic, but I am so fucking miserable.” His voice tapers off into a whisper; like he’s ashamed to admit his own unhappiness. “Don’t get me wrong, I do feel obligated to at least try to become Führer one day, but the thought of carrying on this way for another five plus years makes me want to blow my brains out.”

Ed can’t help but flinch at his choice of expression. He knows that Roy only meant it as hyperbole, but he’s understandably sensitive to any mention of suicide.

“Well, if you’re lonely, there are still a lot of options less controversial than me. I don’t want you to settle for me just because you feel like I’m the best you’re gonna get.”

“Any relationship I’m in with a man will be controversial. That’s unavoidable. Besides, in a bizarre way, I think we’re strangely perfect for each other.”

Ed wonders if the valium really did kill him. The asphyxiation has progressed to the point where he’s beyond resuscitation, and this is his last subconscious projection before his brain shuts down.

This can’t really be happening. People don’t just change their minds like this. Good things don’t just happen. Not for him at least.

The Führership was the one remaining barrier standing between them. Actually, that’s a lie. It was the one remaining barrier preventing them from starting a relationship, not maintaining one.

There are still mountains of obstacles laid out in front of them. As discreet as they are, they won’t be able to hide it forever. When word gets out, it will be a whole mess of ugliness. They’ll have to deal with the fallout, and who knows if their relationship will even survive it.

But like Roy said, that will be their reality for any relationship. Ed’s naive if he thinks that he can skate by unaffected just by staying out of the public eye. Being openly out would affect his future too. It would leave a black mark on everything: school applications, job opportunities, places he can’t go and people he can’t work with.

It would impact everything. And the consequences for Roy would be far worse.

“And the promises you made?”

“I’m going to keep. Maybe even more effectively from the sidelines. To tell the truth, from a political standpoint, I really don’t think this is an ideal time for me to run. I still have a lot of older conservative enemies who have vowed to block anything I put forward and obstruct me at every turn. It might be best to wait for a good portion of them to retire or die out.”

“That’s a real long game strategy.”

“I have time on my side. And it seems like a wiser plan than wasting my entire term stuck in gridlock.”

“And your allies aren’t going to be mad if you withdraw?”

“As long as I support someone with similar platforms, they should be fine with it. I know a few potential candidates with more experience and influence who are on my side. I can throw my people behind one of them and keep a low profile for a couple more elections.”

“It sounds like this has been on your mind for a while.”

“Yeah, it has. But anytime I vaguely considered dropping out, it just made me feel like worthless, selfish scum.”

“Guilt will do that to you.”

“Yeah, it will.”

Ed throws caution to the wind and reaches for his hand. Roy in turn shifts his chair so that his back is facing the door, providing them with a protective barrier in case anyone walks in.

Ed laughs a little under his breath. Their current arrangement makes it seem like he’s lying on his deathbed saying his final goodbyes. The dramatic presentation makes the atmosphere even more relaxed. It adds humor to what is already an absurd situation.

“By the way, I meant what I said earlier about keeping this private. I honestly don’t care about telling people. I’d actually prefer it that way.”

“Me too. We might even be able to get away with it fairly easily since it’s too absurd for any reasonable person to suspect.”

That’s true. He could probably move in with Roy tomorrow with the excuse that he needs to rent a room for a job or school or some shit. No one would question it except for the members of Mustang’s team, who might just congratulate them on finally getting over their petty differences.

Sure, the conspiracy theorists would have a field day, but the rumors would be far less intriguing since he’s not a minor anymore.

He smiles and brings Roy’s hand forward to speak against his fingers.

“And hey, if it really doesn’t work out, then no one has to know it happened. Even if it ends on bad terms, I won’t use it against you. You don’t have to worry about me becoming a liability.”

Ed remembers the state of anxiety he fell into after they exchanged favors on the couch. How he nearly had a panic attack over the thought of Roy leaving him. It’s still a sad possibility to think about, but he doesn’t feel the same sense of overwhelming dread.

For some reason, he was so terrified of loneliness that he was prepared to suffer through any hypothetical abuse or injury rather than leave Roy of his own will. In retrospect, that type of thinking was probably an early warning sign of the impending breakdown that would swallow up months of his life.

That night he spent in Roy’s arms, he convinced himself that this relationship could only end on the worst of terms. It would end with Roy screaming and forcing him out while he begged at his feet for another chance. The thought that this could potentially end without bloodshed seemed far too kind.

As much as it pains him to acknowledge it, they might break up at some point. Maybe for reasons unrelated to the outside world. They might get bored, or unfulfilled, or simply realize that they’re not supposed to be together. After all, they barely know each other.

Ed has to keep reminding himself that they spent less than a week in each other’s company. Barging into Roy’s life and expecting a serious commitment was ridiculous. The fact that Roy is taking this seriously at all is a testament to how crazy they both are.

Roy squeezes his hand and rubs a thumb along his knuckles.

“And how do I know you won’t abandon me once I turn forty?”

“Are you really ready to start comparing insecurities? Because that’s not a competition you’re going to win.”

Roy falls quiet and a cloud seems to cross his expression. Ed worries that he might have said something that upset him. Or worse, maybe he’s finally coming to his senses and plans to change his mind again. After all, promises made in hospitals are almost never kept.

“If we try this…” Roy starts, “I don’t know what the tipping point will be. My age, my history, or my smoking habit which is getting progressively less casual. I’m afraid that you’ll immediately start adding up all the inadequacies and realize this isn’t worth your time.”

Ed can feel pressure building behind his eyes. He starts instinctively shaking his head as he searches for something to say that will make Roy realize how wrong he is.

“Do you really feel that shitty about yourself?”

“On a good day.”

“Would it help if I told you that I think you’re the most beautiful person in the world? Can I put that down as a security deposit?”

That’s all Ed has to offer. He can only hope that Roy doesn’t think he’s lying. He won’t be able to provide a rational justification if Roy asks for one. It’s just the truth, even if he’s the only one in the world who believes it.

“Are you in love with me?”

There’s no confusion or judgment in his voice. Or if there is, he hides it well. It’s such a simple question, but Ed’s not even sure if he has an answer.

Three months ago, he would have said yes without hesitation. But in retrospect, what he was experiencing probably wasn’t love. Upon reflection, it honestly felt more like fear.

Fear of his future, which seemed empty and desolate. Fear that there was no one in the world who could possibly want him. Fear of the encroaching chemicals that were already starting to corrupt his brain.

He wanted to use Roy as a shield against all of that. Somehow he fostered the conviction that if he could live for Roy, then he wouldn’t have to worry about achieving anything for himself. In his head, he drafted out a contract: Roy would take care of him and protect him, and in exchange, Ed would give him every part of himself.

In hindsight, it was far from healthy, and he doubts that their relationship would have lasted on those grounds. Because when he takes a step back and analyzes his feelings: no, he’s not in love with him.

He’s not exactly sure what love is supposed to feel like, but he knows that he’s not there yet.

And that’s normal. There’s no reason for him to be in love yet, and that’s okay. He doesn’t need to turn this into a battle. Roy doesn’t have to be his enemy.

Roy is still waiting patiently for an answer. Ed can only hope that he likes what he has to say.

“I was in a really bad place when I got back in touch with you. It felt like I didn't have anything going for me, so I sort of just… got trapped inside my own head and convinced myself that you were the answer to everything. That being with you would give me some kind of purpose. It was unfair of me to put all of that on you, and it was really unfair to expect you to reciprocate it.

"But to answer your question: I’m in love with the idea of you. I’m in love with the small portion of you that I’ve seen, which admittedly isn’t much.”

That’s a truth he can settle on. It really isn’t much, but hopefully Roy will accept his offering. Now it’s his turn to patiently wait for a response. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t terrified.

Roy just smiles and squeezes his hand tighter.

“Okay then. I guess we’ll go from there.”

A smile breaks across Ed's face.

A few seconds later, his stomach lets out an obscenely loud growl.

“Fuck.” Their conversation really did distract him from how fucking hungry he is. At this point he would gladly accept hospital food over nothing.

“You never had the chance to eat, did you?” Roy asks.

“Nope.”

Roy laughs. “We can grab something on the way back to my place. I’ll go see if I can find someone to discharge us. I have a feeling they forgot about us.”

Roy releases his hand and stands up from his unpadded wooden chair. He twists his back until it pops then stretches out his shoulders while walking towards the door.

“If I’m not back in ten minutes, just assume that I got lost in the liminal space.”

Ed smiles, but says nothing. He doesn’t even have the energy to come up with a witty response.

Once he’s gone, Ed sinks back into the pillow and allows his eyes to drift shut. He’s still exhausted from the train ride, and the bright ceiling lights are messing with his internal clock. He doubts that he’ll be able to fall asleep though. There are patches of pulsing yellow still dancing across the backs of his eyelids, and the second hand of the clock above his head is ticking obnoxiously loud.

All he wants right now is to sleep. If he stays awake, then his mind will inevitably run itself in circles trying to convince him that this will all fall apart. That Roy will change his mind again. If not tonight, then sometime soon. It’s not a problem he can solve. There are no safeguards against it. All he can do is hope that Roy is more decisive and steadfast than he is.

He can’t think about that right now. He's currently living through the best possible scenario.

Roy wants him. Roy actually wants him, and is willing to take risks and make sacrifices to keep him.

After his discharge papers come through, he gets to go home with Roy instead of wandering out in search of a hotel room. He’ll probably get to spend the night lying beside him. And when he returns to Risembool on Saturday, he’ll get to see his brother again. His smile returns and a confused laugh passes his lips. 

He’s starting to reconsider his theory that this is nothing more than his final dream before death.

The door swings open and he jolts upright.

“Are you ready to get out of here?” Roy asks from the doorway.

“God fucking yes.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this didn't feel too rushed! In all honesty I plotted out this ending from the very beginning, as it felt true to the way these things tend to happen in real life.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for coming on this ride with me! This is my first ever fic, and the support and encouragement has been amazing! I may write a short epilogue if it feels necessary, but for now, this is all I got!  
> This certainly doesn't wrap up every loose thread, but my goal was to lay a good foundation for future stories in this verse. Thanks again!

_You know any places that serve soup past midnight?_

_Why soup?_

_I nearly suffocated, I’m not in the mood for anything I have to chew._

_I don’t know about restaurants, but there’s a twenty-four-hour store that has canned soup._

_I can live with that. Can we get some ice cream too?_

After getting back to the house, Roy heats up the soup while Ed takes a shower to wash off the smell of hospital and train fumes. Then they sit on the couch and sip their soup, just like that afternoon when they played chess in front of the fireplace.

It’s been months since Ed has had any desire to eat ice cream, as his appetite never recovered to the point where he could handle that much sugar. To his surprise, it tastes divine on his tongue, and he eats so much that he climbs into bed with a stomachache. Roy lightly scratches along his damp scalp as he falls asleep, still exhausted from the weak patches of sleep he got on the train.

When he opens his eyes the next morning, it takes a second to remember where he is. It feels similar to those hospital mornings after the Promised Day, when his nightmares would haunt him with the possibility that it was all nothing more than a dream; but then he’d see his brother’s form sleeping peacefully across the room, compelling him to snuggle deeper into his blanket and bask in the quiet joy inundating his body.

The clock on the nightstand reads ten, but it feels much earlier since the weather outside is miserably grey. He rolls away from the frosted window and presses up against Roy, whose body feels like a furnace against the slight chill in the air.

He can’t even begin to comprehend everything that has happened within the last fourteen hours. That seems to be how life works. You endure months of absolutely nothing, and then out of nowhere, months will happen within a single day.

He feels like after yesterday, he's earned a couple months of nothing.

As Roy stirs beside him, Ed finds himself growing nervous despite his better judgment. A significant part of him is still terrified that Roy is one gleam of sunlight away from changing his mind. Once the light hits his retinas, he'll realize that no one should ever make important decisions in a hospital at midnight; that the prospect of fitting Ed into his life is just as absurd as it looks on paper.

He waits anxiously as Roy’s eyelids flutter, then finally open; blinking a few times before locking onto Ed's gaze.

“Were you watching me sleep?” he asks with a slurred inflection.

“No, I was watching you wake up.”

“I can’t quite say that I’m awake yet.” He yawns loudly while stretching his legs out beneath the covers before arching his back until a joint pops somewhere in his lower spine. Ed watches the display in relief, thankful that he doesn't seem to regret their sleeping arrangement.

“How’s your throat feel?” Roy asks.

“Normal. Why, did you want to use it for something?”

Roy lets out an amused groan. “How do you have the energy to be snarky this early in the morning?”

“It’s ten o’clock.”

“That’s early.”

“Why are you on vacation leave anyway?”

“Burn out.”

“That’s nice.”

Ed nestles closer against his side, content to lie there until they absolutely need to depart for the train station. Fuck, he wishes he could stay a little while longer. As much as he tries to suppress it, he’s still scared that Roy will change his mind again as soon as he disappears from sight.

Suddenly, the ear-splitting ring of the phone yanks him out of his half-conscious daze.

Roy groans dramatically as he reaches for the phone on the end table. He clumsily pulls the receiver out of the cradle and holds it against his ear.

“Hello? Oh, hi.”

Ed waits on edge, begging the universe to give them a break.

“Yeah, he’s here.” Roy shields the base of the phone with his palm and twists back to face Ed.

“It’s for you.”

He perks up in surprise.

“Who is it?”

“Alphonse.”

Ed quickly darts up and climbs across Roy’s chest so that he can reach the receiver. As he grabs it from Roy’s hand, he nearly yanks the entire phone off the table in his eagerness.

“Al?”

“Brother?”

That one word nearly brings tears to his eyes. A dizzy smile breaks across his face as the sound of Al’s voice reverberates throughout his memories.

“Yeah, it’s me. Where are you?”

“I’m in Risembool. Where are you?”

“Um, I’m–”

“Just kidding, I know where you are. I called you, genius.”

Ed lets out a sharp laugh. Just a few simple words, a couple sentences, and suddenly all the fear inside of him is gone: dispersed like steam, leaving him years younger.

“Right,” he laughs. “You’re back early.”

“Just a bit, yeah. The weather wasn’t as bad as we were expecting. But what are you doing in Central? Winry said you went up to visit Mustang, but she said that I should talk to you for the details.”

It suddenly hits him that he’s fraternally obligated to tell Al everything after he returns.

Everything. Roy, his orientation, his mental health, everything. It’s emotionally draining just thinking about that conversation, and he feels a sheen of sweat coat his palms as he envisions it.

It’ll be fine though. If Winry didn’t care, then Al probably won’t either. Although, Winry never really knew Mustang, whereas Al will see this relationship for what it truly is:

Absolutely fucking crazy.

“How’d you get his number? He’s only been living here since June,” he asks to deflect from the topic at hand.

“I called Captain Hawkeye and she gave it to me. I still had her number in my address book. Funnily enough, she said you called a couple days ago for the exact same reason.”

“Yeah, well, Mustang and I aren’t the best at communication.”

He glances down to look at Roy, who is gently fiddling with his hair while staring up at the ceiling.

“That sounds about right. So what are you doing in Central? I tried calling last night, but no one answered. Were you guys out?”

Technically speaking, yes. He briefly considers telling Al about their field trip to the hospital, but realizes that going down that road would require explaining why the hell he was taking valium. Best to just leave that admission for when they can talk face to face. Besides, he really wants to relax and enjoy these last couple hours with Roy before leaving for who knows how long.

“Yeah, we were out pretty late. Listen, I promise I’ll tell you everything after I get back. In the meantime, don’t pester Winry for information.”

“Oh, don’t worry, she’s clamped shut. But everything’s okay, right? No world-ending disasters I should be aware of?”

For once in his life, he can’t think of any.

“No, nothing serious. Just life stuff.”

“Then I’ll try to hold out a little longer.”

“Thanks. It’s so good to hear your voice.” It really does feel like he’s on the verge of tears. He spent so many sleepless nights engulfed in despair, convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would never hear his voice again.

“Your’s too. I’m really glad you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah, me too. Listen, I gotta go. Mustang’s taking me out to eat before dropping me off at the station.”

“It’s really nice that he’s taking the day off for you.”

“Nah, he was on vacation leave anyway. He doesn’t care about me that much.”

Roy tugs at the ends of his hair a bit.

“Well, enjoy yourself. And have a safe trip. I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Yeah, see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.” He barely manages to choke out those last few words.

“Bye.”

He reaches forward to hang up the phone, then rolls back to the dent he left on his side of the bed.

“God, that’s a relief.” He runs his fingers through the hair around his scalp. “I have a very long conversation in store for me when I get back.”

“Are you going to tell him about us?” Roy asks, trying to sound casual, but obviously apprehensive.

“Well, I’m sure as hell not gonna lie and say that I came up here to discuss a job offer.”

“I’d cover for you if you did.”

“I know, but I’m not strong enough to hide anything from him. Especially now that he has these stupidly sympathetic eyes. And his eyebrows do this weird scrunch thing whenever he’s upset. It’s unnerving.”

“You do that too.”

Roy pushes himself onto his elbow and presses a thumb against the point between Ed's eyebrows. Without waiting for permission, he begins massaging the skin in little circles, gliding with the oil on his unwashed face. Once that spot is sufficiently treated, he starts dragging his thumb back and forth across the ridge of his brow.

“Keep doing that,” Ed demands.

Roy happily complies and continues rubbing along the hair of his eyebrows, pressing deep into the thin muscle of his temples. Then he gently runs his thumb down the slope of his nose and drags it back up along the curve of his cheekbone. Ed’s lower lip falls open a bit as he lets out a series of soft sighs and content mewls. A louder sound makes it past his lips when Roy digs deep into the spot where his nose meets cheek, evoking a dull, sweet pain in his sinuses.

“Keep making sounds like that,” Roy whispers.

Ed opens his eyes to see Roy staring down at him raptly, his mouth slightly parted and his lips wet.

“Are you getting off on this?”

“Yes, very much so.”

Roy shifts his body forward a bit and a flush hits Ed's face when he lightly presses his cock against his thigh. Ed lets out a soft moan to show that the contact is welcome, and Roy takes that as permission to settle against him. He drapes one leg over Ed’s and puts all his weight into his pelvis, giving a satisfied grunt as he adjusts into a comfortable position.

Ed squirms as he feels his own cock start to grow restless; but he tries to ignore it for the moment and keep his focus on Roy’s hand, which is migrating from his cheek up to his ear. He tenderly rubs the shell between his thumb and forefinger, and Ed can’t help but clench his brow in pleasure.

The minutes pass as Roy massages his neck, runs a knuckle along his hairline, then buries his hand into his loose hair to knead at his scalp and tug at the roots, all the while slowly rutting against his leg and letting out sensual exhales on each thrust.

Ed finally lifts Roy’s face so that he can kiss him and swallow his breaths. They kiss in clipped contact, moistening their lips and mouthing at each other’s chins. Roy breaks past the barrier of his lips to caress his tongue, causing Ed to shiver at the foreign sensation.

“I really don’t know anything about kissing,” he admits once they have a moment of separation.

“Well, here’s a secret: no one does.”

Ed laughs and dives back in. He tangles one hand in his short hair, careful not to shift his body too much lest he disrupt Roy’s rhythm.

Ed hasn’t gotten off in a very long time. He forced himself to masturbate during the early days of his depression in a desperate attempt to replenish the oxytocin in his brain. However, he found little enjoyment in the act, and it would often take over an hour just to reach an unsatisfying conclusion.

His body is clearly starving for it after several months of abstinence. He’s fully hard now and his cock is chafing against the fabric of his sweatpants. As much as it aches, he forces himself to exercise restraint. After all, it'll be better if he can wait until Roy is warmed up since he probably won’t last very long after they get started.

A nervous tremor rattles through him when he considers the possibility that Roy is now anticipating penetrative sex. Ed knows that he won’t pressure him into it, but it still sucks that he’ll have to bring up that awkward issue right in the middle of things.

“Shit,” Roy gasps under his breath,  unlocking their lips and burying his face in the crook of Ed’s neck. He presses his hips forward a few more times, more writhing than coordinated thrusting; then he freezes, his muscles going taut as he groans loudly against his shoulder, opening his mouth wide as if intending to bite him. He lets out a long sigh as his body deflates and settles into dead weight. Once it's over, he shifts his hips away, but Ed can still feel a damp patch sticking against his thigh.

Roy keeps his face hidden against his shoulder, clearly embarrassed by what just happened.

“Sorry,” he says after a spell of awkward silence.

Ed can’t help it. He starts laughing.

“Hey, you little shit, what’s so funny?” he asks, playfully swatting at his chest. Ed manages to reel in his laughter, but his voice still comes out clipped.

“Nothing, just wasn’t expecting that.”

Roy finally lifts his head out of hiding and to Ed’s relief, he’s smiling too.

“Fuck, I can’t remember the last time that happened.”

“Yeah you do, don’t lie.”

“Fine, it was right after I finished basic training. I hadn’t gotten off in three weeks and it was a miserable experience for everyone involved.”

Ed lets out a sound that he would begrudgingly call a giggle, which grows louder as Roy leans forward to kiss the creases of his smile. Honestly, he’s more than relieved that the issue of sex can now wait until they’ve had a chance to cool off.

“You sweet thing,” Roy murmurs, “you’ll never know the struggle of spending two months out in the middle of nowhere sharing a barrack with forty other men.”

“I went through puberty sharing a bedroom with my brother who didn’t sleep. I think I can relate.”

“ _We_ had communal showers.”

“Never mind, that’s worse.”

Roy smiles and runs a hand across his clothed chest. Ed arches into it, freshly aware of his own need. He’s painfully hard and his balls are starting to throb. Roy continues rubbing his chest, but seems to be waiting for permission to go lower.

In a spark of boldness, Ed reaches down to touch himself instead.

He cups his dick through the fabric and teases himself a bit before reaching below the waistband. His body bows when his hand finally makes contact. He opens his eyes to see Roy staring down at the space between his legs, still hidden beneath the covers.

“You said you’ve been having dreams about me,” he says in a voice that he hopes passes for sultry.

“I did, didn’t I.”

“Tell me about them.” He begins slowly rubbing his cock. It’s not very satisfying without any lubrication, but the pressure is still better than nothing.

Roy begins running a finger up and down the exposed skin of his arm, invoking a trail of goosebumps.

“I can’t remember them that well. I remember… watching you make a bracelet and getting upset when the colors didn’t match.”

“That’s your subconscious impression of me?”

“I guess so,” Roy laughs and kisses his shoulder. “But I also remember… just holding you. Feeling the bones in your ribcage. Smelling your hair. I had this one dream where we were in a tent by some lake. You kept insisting that we make a fire, and I kept trying to explain to you that we couldn’t light a fire inside the tent.”

“You’re not giving me much to work with here,” he complains. He’s not going to admit that just listening to Roy’s voice is starting to make the head of his cock wet.

Roy swiftly bolts up and yanks the covers away, causing Ed to recoil in surprise.

“Hey!” His hand is still buried in his sweatpants, but now Roy can clearly see the outline of his dick. He settles between his legs and stares down at him curiously, apparently debating what he wants to do next.

“Can I watch?” he asks softly.

Ed shudders and quickly nods his head.

“Do you have anything I can use?”

“Yeah.” Roy leans over to the bedside table and pulls a small jar out of the drawer. “Is vaseline okay?”

“Yeah, that’s good.” He takes the offered jar and retracts his hand so that he can unscrew the lid. He dips two fingers in and rubs the smooth gel in his hand until it grows warm. Roy takes the jar from him to twist it back up and place it on the table.

Only then does the reality of the situation hit him. For some reason, masturbating in front of another person feels significantly more intimate than mutual sex. Maybe because it’s something you’re only supposed to share with yourself. Most people probably go their whole lives without anyone ever seeing them in that private state.

Slowly, Ed reaches down with his clean hand to push down his sweatpants and withdraw his hard cock, which twitches a bit at the cool air. This is the first time Roy has really seen him. It’s probably the first time he’s ever seen an erect cock apart from his own. He glances up at Roy for approval, and sees him drinking in the sight of his length with an enraptured expression.

Confident and unbearably turned on, Ed reaches down to stroke himself from base to tip. A wave of satisfaction rolls through him when he catches Roy licking his lips.

Ed lets his head lull back as his muscles tense and pulse with warmth. He wasn’t sure what touching himself in front of another person was supposed to feel like, but he definitely wasn’t expecting it to be this intense. Roy himself seems to be equally lost, as his eyes keep darting between his cock and his face like he’s not sure which one he wants to watch more.

He expected it to be embarrassing to some degree, and he supposes it is. Putting something so personal on display. Reducing himself to a deeper state of vulnerability. He can’t even care though since his facilities for processing shame have completely shut down.

His hips are moving involuntarily in time with his strokes. Roy reaches his hands out to steady his trembling legs. The wet, squelching sound is resonating against the walls of the bare room.

He can’t even think. Normally, he has a routine when he does this. A mental slideshow of fantasies and a pattern that he knows will give him a satisfying release. He can’t recall any of that though. He feels like a teenager again, touching himself insecurely, feverishly chasing an abstract end that he knows exists but can't quite envision.

Before long he feels it building to a crest. He slows down his movements in an effort to drag it out. It’s agony, each stroke expelling a raw dose of chemicals straight into his bloodstream. It burns and aches and he’d like nothing more than to die from it. He squeezes himself tight and firmly pulls up, letting out a strained gasp as he almost falls over the edge.

“Can I?” Roy asks gently. His soft voice jolts him out of his own headspace, where he was engulfed in thunderous sound.

He hesitates for a second, but isn’t sure why. Maybe because it will mean revoking that last ounce of control and putting himself completely at Roy’s mercy.

Still, he wants Roy to have this, so he nods his head and retracts his hand.

The lack of contract instantly causes his cock to strain in protest. Roy teases him by slowly caressing down his inner thigh with an infuriatingly smug grin. Once he finally wraps his fingers around his length, Ed instinctively coils the muscles in his abdomen and thighs. One last spark of rationality compels him to pull the bottom hem of his shirt up to his chest so that he doesn’t make a mess on it.

Roy begins stroking him firmly, running a thumb along the vein and palming at the head. Ed’s beyond the point of being able to control his facial expressions, and he can feel his features contorting into unnatural shapes.

The energy rises to the surface as he closes in on the final phase. That excruciating period when you’re trapped in a state of hyper-arousal, consumed with nothing but the primal urge to get the poison out of your body.

Finally, he makes it to the plateau right before orgasm. That heightened state when all sense of the outside world fades away. He’s completely helpless to the inevitable and can only wait patiently until his body hits the breaking point.

“You’ve never seen this,” he gasps out in one breath.

“Not on another person, no.”

He’s coming. He’s coming.

Everything locks into place as he feels the first splash of cum hit his stomach. The blood rushing through his ears seems just as loud as the moan that tears from his throat. Everything is engulfed in ringing white light. It’s raw and deep; millennia of evolution communicating that this is the most important thing in the world. It’s worth living for this alone. In the midst of it, he tries to cling onto the sensation, fully aware that he’ll lose all memory of it within a couple of seconds.

It’s just everything.

After he finishes, Roy continues gently stroking him until he starts to squirm from the overstimulation. His head falls to the side and his eyes close in satiation. He’s vaguely aware of Roy reaching over to the bedside table to grab a handful of tissues, which he uses to clean up the mess on his stomach.

Once he’s finished, he collapses next to Ed and lays an arm across his chest. Ed languidly reaches down to tuck himself back into his pants and then pull the covers up, slightly cold from his cooling sweat.

He twists to his side and burrows against Roy, eagerly inhaling his scent.

“Thank you,” Roy pecks the words against his lips.

“Think you can jerk off to that until I get back?” he asks, still completely drunk.

Roy laughs. “I think it’ll hold me over for a while. When are you planning on coming back?”

“Whenever Al leaves, so no idea. But I think I can pencil you in at some point.”

They lie there in peace for a while. Until Ed decides that it’s time to initiate the uncomfortable pillow talk.

“You haven’t changed your mind at all since last night?” he asks hesitantly, fully aware that he should have brought the matter up before they decided to fool around.

“No. I’m really not looking forward to all the phone calls I have to make right after you leave, but honestly, it’s a relief to finally move past it.”

Ed smiles and presses his nose against his arm. How can another person’s sweat smell so sweet?

“I don’t think anyone would blame you if you wanted to wait ‘til Monday.”

“I think it’s best to just get it over with. I can wrap everything up today, and move into the next phase of action on Monday. Besides, I haven’t made any public announcements yet, so there aren’t that many people to tell.”

“But you’ll tell them that it’s all for completely logical, rational reasons. No emotions or personal revelations played any part.”

“No, of course not.”

Time seems to slip through the cracks. Ed’s mind is drifting in subspace, growing fuzzy around the edges. His thighs are tingling and his hands feel like they're pressed against a radiator. He’s so sleepy, but he tries to remain conscious, aware that if they both pass out then he could very well miss his train.

That seems to be an unnecessary concern though, as Roy soon regains enough energy to start pressing kisses against his forehead and rubbing a hand along his spine. Ed’s not exactly sure how much time has passed, but it can’t be enough that Roy is really ready for a second round.

But to be fair, after eighteen years of unfulfilling sex, he must be starving for it.

“It feels so different,” Roy whispers against his hairline.

“In what way?”

“I don’t know. I’ve barely had you, but it’s already so, so good.”

Ed feels a sliver of interest returning at the tone of his voice.

Roy disentangles himself and Ed wonders if he’s getting out of bed. Instead, he kicks off his underwear and sweatpants beneath the covers and tosses them to the floor. Ed flinches as he realizes that now would be the appropriate time to give his disclaimer.

Roy rolls back and immediately begins kissing down the line of his neck. His skin is so sensitive that the contact evokes a full body tremor. While Roy licks and nips along his jaw, Ed tries to maintain enough cognitive focus to figure out the best way to tell him about his issue. When Roy reaches down to grab a handful of his ass, he knows that he can’t put it off any longer.

“Hey, just so you know, I can’t have anal sex today.”

He finally accepts that it’s going to sound awkward no matter how he phrases it.

“Hm?” Roy intones, prompting him for more information.

“It’s just that… I’ve only done it once before, and it was so painful I nearly blacked out.”

That was very much the wrong way to phrase it, as Roy’s eyes widen in shock and he retracts his hand from his ass.

“No, relax, I wasn’t raped or anything. It’s not that big of a hang up. I want to do it eventually, but it might take a minute.”

He instantly regrets uttering the word ‘rape’ in any form or context. At least Roy seems to relax a bit, but there’s still worry written across his expression.

“Did your partner realize that you were in a lot of pain?”

Ed sighs. He knew that bringing the matter up was going to be unpleasant, but he really didn’t prepare himself for a full conversation.

“He definitely did, but I told him to keep going anyway. I’m just stupid sometimes and don’t know when to quit. Even if something’s hurting me, I try to hide it.”

Roy lifts a hand to cup his cheek. Ed closes his eyes and hopes that Roy will let the discussion end there. He’s still high on hormones, and wants nothing more than to forget his past trauma and enjoy these last few hours of nothingness.

“You promise you won’t do that with me?” Roy asks.

“Yeah, promise.”

Ed decides that’s enough talking. He claims Roy’s mouth and seals that promise with a kiss.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I ended it on the cheesiest line imaginable! I wasn't originally going to put a smut chapter at the end, but at the eleventh hour it just felt right.


End file.
